A trainwreck from the human perspective
by TheThiefsDaughter
Summary: Post season 7. It's become mostly AU now that season 7 has in fact started. Castiel is alone and he is human - then Crowley wants some payback. Warning: contains torture and a lot of pie for some reason.
1. Accompanied by unbidden thoughts

**_TITLE: A trainwreck from the human perspective_**

**_A/N: I may be one of the few people who actually loved (in a traumatized, NOOOOO, sort of way) the finale and the development with Castiel and this is, I suppose, a post season 7 idea (I haven't got the faintest idea of course, seeing as I don't know what is planned for the next season, but I'm guessing this is post series *sob*).  
>So, Castiel is human, alone and thinking. And then something will happen, but that is not this chapter^^<br>All thoughts are meant to be seen through Cass eyes, not me thinking here, just the angel (or human)._**

**_This has NOT been beta'd so all mistakes are kudos to me (hopefully there are none, yes?).  
><em>****_Rating due to later events, because I love me some angsty, hurt Cas and redemption (YES, he will be redeemed you naughty series).  
><em>****_No pairing unless you choose to see it that way. I like to leave the possibility open to the individual._**

**_Disclaimer: I'm disclaiming (though very much against my will) _**

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><p><strong>Accompanied by unbidden thoughts in a cheap motel room<strong>

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><p>Castiel sits on the bed. His arms are wrapped around his tucked – in legs, his chin balanced on his knees. His eyes are unfocused, but wide and fearful. This isn't how he remembers it from last the time. This is darker and he is more alone.<p>

He'd had a taste of humanity before, back when the apocalypse had been impending and God had seemingly abandoned the world to the whims of tantrum instilled angels. He'd never expected to become something like them, Hell, something worse than them.  
>The difference between them and him, were probably original motives. "<em>I mean," <em>Castiel thinks to himself, "_it all boils down to family, one way or another." _The angels had their "Daddy issues," Castiel… Castiel had betrayed the family that actually surrounded him.

He sometimes feels like the Winchesters attract something like lost puppies. Their lives are so permanently screwed anyway that they become attached to anyone who – in some weird way or another – becomes latched to their war against beings usually a thousand times stronger than them.  
>You couldn't help but feel loyal to their black and white ways of seeing the world, although, maybe it became less simple since Sam started on the demon blood that led to <em>his <em>downward spiral. It was scary, discovering that the world existed in shades of grey, that in order to do good, one allowed evil. Even became evil in certain instances. Sam had experienced it, but… Dean had forgiven him and, well, it wasn't as if Sam hadn't redeemed himself by sacrificing his life to an eternity in the pit with a pissed off archangel and his demonic brother.

This was where it started.  
>Dean returned to Lisa <em>again. <em>Castiel had, at the time, wondered whether she would try to stab him upon entering her life again, but apparently Dean inspires love to whoever he lays his eyes on. He was purposefully keeping his promise to Sam. It was the only part of Sam remaining.  
>Castiel – determined not to ruin Dean's "so called" happiness – returned to heaven, now intent on handing out "Team Free Will" T – shirts to angels without orders. Angels without orders are baseless, apparently. Order an angel to hang itself (of course, allowing for the fact that angels technically do not die of this) and the angel will gladly do so, if it were told that God wanted it so. Sadly, even within the ranks of faithful angels, there will always exist one that wants to play God. And, to honour the play, one angel, preferably much weaker and "corrupted" by human kind, will step up to the challenge. This angel was in this instance cast by Castiel.<br>Motives: Faith towards God. Strange, how it always comes back to faith. No matter how much free will poisons his veins, Castiel knows that it was originally belief in the free will that God encouraged that started the war. That, and the fact that Raphael disagreed strongly.

Castiel almost wants to blame Dean at this point. Dean raking his stupid leaves in that stupid garden, living with that woman, trying to live his stupidly fake life.  
>At this point in the story Castiel knows it is a fake. Castiel has raised Sam from perdition (ah, the irony) and eventually Dean will return to whatever runs through his blood: Family, hunting. Sure, Lisa and Ben are in a simple fashion Dean's family, but they are not a part of his life. As soon as he hunts again they will fall by the wayside.<br>But Castiel wanted him to feel safe for a moment. Sentimentally idiotic, he knows, but if there was one thing he did not wish at the time, it was to ruin Dean Winchester's simple, "white – picket fence" life, no matter how brief it may have been.

At that moment he wanted to reveal himself and possibly help in raking a few stupid leaves together. It even felt realistic to do so.  
>Alas at small reprieves.<p>

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><p>Castiel hears a noise. A creak. With these eyes he cannot discern the shadows from reality and he longs to stand from the bed to explore the source, but simultaneously he fears these noises. He, an angel of the Lord, fears the dark within a simple motel room.<br>He wishes he had his old eyes and could simply see through the dark, "eyes" being a technical term, seeing as he never really had eyes as an angel.  
>Only that once, that scary time when he'd awoken in a hospital and felt, well, the best description would be "minor, physical irritations," had he received the bitterness of humanity in all its glory and – for the love of… well, you know – it was perceived through a friggin bug scratch.<br>He'd been a Winchester puppy back then, for want of a better word. Worry had been etched in Dean's voice when Castiel had called him from the hospital. It was odd. Worry was not something that was generally associated with angels. At the time, Castiel had steadfastly held onto his "angelism." Yes, he'd lost power, but he was still, in some sense, divine. Perhaps the strongest argument towards his humanity was that he was lying to himself at the time. Angels don't lie.

"But to return," Castiel says aloud in the room, trying to drown the silence and the noises that always multiply within it. "I was watching Dean raking leaves. I think he would have called it "a breach of his personal space" had he known. I haven't told him about me watching him. I probably never will…"

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><p>Crowley was – is – a son of a bitch. A well spoken, alluring, annoyingly smoothly accented, ill – tempered and manipulating bastard.<br>He had successfully diverted everyone's attention by assisting in the campaign against the devil. What everyone – "yes, including myself, I admit to my folly" – had failed to realize, was that Crowley was not working in everybody's best interest. He was working for his own. Returning to Bobby the use of his legs was a cunning decoy, one that had even the old drunk believing his demonic lies for a while.

Castiel can, at present moment, relate to whoever is deceived by something as appealing as "doing the right thing." At this time in his life he would forgive anyone for strolling amiably down that paved road of lost good intentions. Maybe he and Sam ought to start a redeemers club, although one of those does exist already. It's called church.  
>Castiel doesn't feel like praying. If anyone deserves a well – aimed lightning bolt of wrath in the face, it's him. And Castiel knows that it isn't because he has flaunted power. He has learnt now from first hand experience (and he wasn't warned by Lucifer's and Michael's little dance party) that power corrupts. The power that is supplied via <em>a lot <em>of evil souls is probably not the best to invest in and it should be known that this power does not end with thoughts of handing lollypops to the starving people of the world. It is not misguided, yet selfless. It is pure, unadulterated evil and it consumes.

Castiel holds no illusions. His actions were his own. He did it out of love, loyalty, faith. Once.  
>Following events that led to his last prayer before <em>that happened, <em>he now knows that it turned to resentment. Even taking into account the greyer zones of life, he betrayed family, at that moment, on that damned bench. He – God help him – chose a demon. As if Sam hadn't been one big lesson since they'd met. Sam, the abomination, Sam with demon blood running through him, Sam who once feared that his brother would forever regard him as a freak.  
>And now Castiel is the freak.<p>

Of course, although the original idea is the same "good guy gets tricked by demon" the story will never play out the same way twice. The beginning is the same and the ending will always be pain, but that oddity called "the middle" is what no one can predict.  
>Castiel could have failed and the second apocalypse would have been looming ominously, waiting to jump from under its bridge and eat up the world, like any bad – tempered troll. Albeit, a very large troll.<br>As it is, Castiel, alone, seemingly abandoned, performing one act after another that caused this play to end in something akin to moral relapse (the end justifies the means, right?), succeeded.

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><p>"The word "won" comes to mind here, although I am no longer sure over whom I triumphed. God, Raphael, Crowley, the Winchesters? All I remember from opening purgatory is feeling something new. I did not know at the time, but I'm guessing it has to do with devouring evil souls. Can't be good for you, I suppose. This <em>thing, <em>I guess it was evil. I wanted to hurt and worse: I could.  
>Here again, I must use the slogan: "Power corrupts." It's amazing how little can be said in two words."<p>

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><p>Castiel recalls his words, his actions. <em>Did I say that?<br>_"_So you see, I saved you" … "you doubted me" … Snap and Raphael was gone, replaced by blood and flesh and nothing … "I'm no longer an angel" … "I'm your new God, a better one" … "You will bow down before me and profess your love. Or I will destroy you." _  
>All those souls laughing at him, that part of him that was still Castiel. They would win ultimately, everything that Dean and Sam had fought returning in this single entity that was meant to be a friend, family, whatever he meant to the Winchesters.<br>Castiel had felt like a fraud at that moment, "_I am not God, am I? What is really important to me?" _But the souls had urged him on, feeding on his righteousness, his resentment, anger, doubt, guilt and, strangely, love. Evil fed on that too, surprisingly.

The thing that still felt real for a moment was Dean. He remembered words he uttered so long ago "_Dean and I do share a more profound bond. I wasn't gonna mention it."  
><em>Back when he was still Castiel, angel of the Lord, he had gripped this man's soul (yes, a man, but not "just" a man), broken and deformed as it was and raised him from the deepest pit, scarring him.  
>Castiel suddenly relished their bond more than ever. He could see it trailing like a shining lifeline between himself and the man – his "eyes" could see clearer than humans.<br>In that moment of messed up megalomaniacal thoughts that he wasn't even sure were his own, it felt real, concrete – binding him to this human as he once was. It was good and Castiel wanted to listen to reason, wanted to become Castiel again as he basked in the terrified glow of Dean's soul. But the voices inside him repeated to him: _Terrified. He's terrified. You are no longer his. _Castiel's natural act would have been to remove whatever threatened his human, but evil fed off that protectiveness, reminding him that _He _was what was being feared and he was God, wasn't he? Why should these humans fear him? Unless they don't worship him, of course.  
>And Castiel was gone.<p>

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><p>"There. I've, uh, reached the point of the story where I am not sure how to continue. I guess I don't really want to, but I've heard (possibly a Winchester told me, I don't know. They've told me a lot) that you feel better when you've got stuff off your chest. It's a strange phrase "off your chest." Now that I have time to think about it, I suppose it's to do with your heart. It is true that my heart feels heavy, literally, and that I'm sickened and weary. I am also hungry, but I think that has more to do with the human condition than my mental health. A while ago, I would not have understood the association that is created between the physical and the psychological. To be honest, I do not understand it now, but I am feeling it."<p>

Before, when he had been dangerously close to losing his beloved grace, it had been uncomfortable. Understatement. He had never actually told Dean and Sam how frightened he had been. The fact that he had the notion to be afraid was worse. The fact that the boys took it in their stride was comforting.  
>Questions, having to face the reality, these were matters that Castiel never had a chance to dwell on the last time. If he inadvertently tried, he drowned unbidden thoughts with alcohol.<br>Go Dean for introducing that forgetfulness drug.

Castiel has no alcohol now. If he did, he would be using it to forget what really pulled him through that first haul. But now that he is alone in the motel and cannot sleep, he must continue watching the tragedy he has written." It's some lousy writing that has been utilized in bringing this story into existence," says Castiel to the room.

The room stays silent and Castiel is not sure who he is talking to anyway.

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><p><strong><em>TBC... I wanted to start out slow, just to show how incredibly alone Cas really feels after my version of season 7... of course I have NOOO idea if the real season will end with Castiel losing his Grace, but Sam had to go an eternity in the pit (he didn't thank goodness), so Castiel has a MAJOR way to go before being redeemed^^<em>**


	2. The plot thickens

**_A/N: Wow, I finished chapter two on speed (not literally, but writing at 3am can apparently have the same effect). Again, this is unbeta'd so messy mistakes are all me_**

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><p><strong>The plot thickens<strong>

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><p>Castiel yearns for a few things from back when he was an angel. Strength and awareness, as compared to his current sleep deprivation that makes him feel wide awake, but causes simultaneous weariness. Can't the human body make up its mind as to what it wants?<p>

There was his gracefulness. He cannot get used to this body. It contains him in a way that he would never allow as an angel. Basically, he feels clumsy, weak and, well, human. It's… not nice.

Castiel misses the assurance. It is a feeling he remembers from the early days, before he even met the Winchesters. The knowledge that whatever he did, it was righteous because God said so. It was like a game of Simon Says, but with so many sub clauses in the rulebook that it contains at least a million pages.

An example. God says: Save this man.  
>Castiel obeys, but suddenly this man isn't an order, this isn't "because he said so." This man is Dean Winchester and he feels and is alive and wants for you to do the right thing. But when Free Will becomes an option, how does one know the right path?<br>"And we're back to Free Will," mutters Castiel. His eyes have started closing when he remembers more of what he misses.

His wings. He does not even wish to dwell on how much they were to him. Right now, for example, had he been an angel he would be wrapping them around himself, shielding himself from the world, just for a bit. They were warm, powerful. Imagine ripping the wings off a bird with your bare hands or picture cutting a human's arms off with a chainsaw.  
>Yes, Castiel thinks that more than anything else, he wishes to have his wings returned.<p>

Also, being able to insult Dean's personal space on a daily basis is something that will be sorely missed. Although that act would probably still be forfeit now had he somehow managed to save his Grace.

"I have reached the end of the story, I suppose. My acts of utter megalomaniacal evil… I do not wish to speak of those, not even with the previous saying in mind, that I must," a small, confused smile graces his face for a second and he looks like Castiel when there is something he doesn't understand properly, "get it off my chest. Suffice to know that I have sinned. I have repented too. I have sacrificed my Grace in saving the world from… Myself. I am interested in how ironic that sounds, also very – what is the word – clichéd. I believe Dean once told me of the word when he announced how many movie plots copy Star Wars. I wouldn't know. I have never had the pleasure of viewing it. I wonder if I can be redeemed?"

Castiel knows that he is rambling and that he is close to falling asleep. He unhooks his arms from around his legs. Castiel's trench coat is hanging over a chair beside the bed and now he loosens his tie and lays it neatly beside it. He removes his jacket and throws it over the coat. He shuffles back, his head now resting against the minuscule pillow that is provided by the motel, and shuts his eyes for the first time since he awoke on this earth after crashing from the heavens.

Then, as an afterthought, he leans forward, grabs the duvet that has been pushed to the other end of the bed and covers himself with it. He pretends it is his wings wrapped around him or that someone is holding him tight, protecting him. He doubts anyone will ever wish to protect him again, but hope is resilient and he clings to that hope.

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><p>Crowley is angry. He wonders if it is a permanent factor to his personality. That and an uncanny knack for self – preservation. He survived the apocalypse, he has – for the moment – survived the Winchesters (damn them both to Hell, yes please) and Castiel. Actually, thinking of Castiel at the moment is the only thing that will make Crowley smile – well smirk, at least.<p>

So Castiel has joined the humans crawling about in the mud. Well isn't that just delightful. Crowley has actually been working for (the word "for" making him cringe) Castiel until very recently. Self – preservation can demand some sacrifice after all.

Therefore Hell is at the moment a complete mess.

Think of it as a business. Actually, add Heaven into the equation and we have two rival businesses. The problem is that Hell will always be the underdog. You can only damn so many humans, ever since God went all "benevolent." On the other hand, that Free Will thing is a tricky, sodding bastard. The Angels don't understand it, Thank… Well, Crowley isn't sure who to thank. The few who do demonstrate Free Will end up dead or – in the delicious case of Castiel – turned into humans, no more Grace, weakened and easy prey.

Castiel. Now that was one peculiar Angel. Crowley had actually enjoyed his company, that was, until Castiel had gone all "mightier than thou" on him and ordered his obedience. Crowley supposes he was lucky. Obedience beats death by a long shot. It was odd that Crowley had preferred naïve Cas to "pumped up on evil steroids" Castiel. Actually Crowley had really liked Cas, this being for the obvious reasons that he was able to bend him like a spoon from the Matrix and make him betray the Winchesters – three cheers for that one Crowley, never has a deal been more satisfying, personally.

Being able to prod and poke at his doubts and resentment was some of the most fun Crowley had had in years. Also, Castiel is not tiresome to look at, something Crowley greatly appreciated at the time, although Castiel wouldn't be able to take a hint if it ripped out his eyes and played ball with them.

That was then. This is now.  
>And Crowley would love to rip out Castiel's eyes for the disorder that Crowley is now forced to face after arriving back in his Kingdom, well, office.<p>

Not many demons are aware of the amount of paperwork that is needed to run Hell. Sure you can put all the souls in a giant, dark pit and say "go nuts" to your inferiors. Problem is some humans are different to others. How do you tell the difference between a human and a demon? Some humans come down here and they're practically worse from the moment they enter the place, "and don't get me started on the masochists," grumbles Crowley, surveying his messy desk.

He has, upon returning, gone slightly medieval again, back to good old Hellfire and hot pokers. That is just to get some of his burning temper out of his system, blow off some steam. Because, sure, Crowley is modern, but he has also been around for _a_ _long time _and occasionally nurtures a certain nostalgia for the good old days_. _Some demons taste that first tang of earth and then, suddenly, they're already pushing up sweet daisies or something along that line, but not him. The difference being that he is smart. Most of the time, of course, it's the Winchesters fault. Crowley is going to be considering for a while on how best to enjoy their melodic screams of pain.

But for the moment, Castiel will do. Actually, Castiel is the person Crowley wishes to see again the most. Crowley has actually made a list of offences that Castiel has committed against him. The top three being the most inconvenient to Crowley:

1. Going back on their deal.

2. Stopping him from killing the Winchesters – _seriously, _even hopped up on soul juice that angel had a sordid soft spot for Dean that had meant some sort of protection, although torturing them wasn't entirely off the menu (Crowley remembered that once especially– good times).

3. Ordering Crowley about – like some friggin underdog demon. Crowley, the King of Hell, and he is bowing and scraping to an angel. Of course, being sent on "righteous" missions was definitely worth it, but Crowley knew that he had lost any respect for Castiel at that point. Because Castiel wasn't acting like God. He was acting more like a second Lucifer - courtesy of running/flying about with evil souls directing your vessel – and if there was one thing Crowley would not stand for, it was somebody taking over his place in the food chain.

Oh yes, Crowley is looking forward to meeting Castiel again. But first he really must find himself a competent secretary.

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><p>It is like the aftermath of a war. But, then again, that is the description of their lives after all: "Welcome to the battle of the Winchesters, expect bloodshed, pain and horror. Join up now and you can have a free beer coupon with every psycho monster you kill."<p>

Now, all of a sudden, comes one moment that has Dean and Sam sitting as if in a trance on a moth eaten sofa in a decrepit house owned by a certain Bobby Singer.  
>It is the second when they realize: "There's nothing trying to kill us."<p>

Of course they'd had instants in between hunts where breaks from their constant war were awarded along with refreshments in the shape of beer and relaxing silence between the two. But there had always been some sort of major _something _that would always be looming over these pauses from hunting, Azazel, Lillith, Lucifer, Castiel – all those maniacs waiting for them to drop their guard. Now… Suddenly they are sitting shell shocked and disbelieving. Castiel sacrificed himself – to their knowledge fallen from Grace – and Crowley is, as far as they know, dead.

Obviously there are still monsters, ghosts and demons out there, but now every main villain that has starred in making their lives Hell is gone. No more destinies, personal vendettas or desperate fights for the world.

Naturally, there is only one way to react: "So, Sam," Dean says and clears his throat, but he isn't sure where his sentence is headed so he stops talking.

"Yeah?" Sam turns to look at him, pleading eyes hoping that Dean knows what to do.

"Uh, you… wanna have a beer?"

Suddenly the world makes sense again.

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><p>Now they are sitting on the couch again, beer bottles clinking against each other in celebration. They are feeling much better until Dean has to ask: "Sam, what about Cas?"<p>

Sam shrugs. Their year hasn't been exactly pleasant and that is when holding it against all their other unpleasant years.

"Do we really know if he's returned to Cas?" he asks, ever looking at the practical side of the matter.

"Of course, Sam, you know it was the souls messing his head with their mojo," replies Dean, scandalized.

"Yeah, but part of that was still _him, _wait… Are you gonna forgive him? After everything he put on us?" says Sam and his eyes reflect how much hurt they have been through. He remembers how Dean looked at him after he'd freed Lucifer, how long it had taken before they'd become brothers again, and now Dean is simply going to let this one pass?

"_No." _Dean's cracked voice cuts through the pain in Sam that has slowly been building to suicidal anguish. _Wow, _thinks Sam. _Calm down with the poetry, man, Suicidal anguish, really?_

Dean continues: "But we owe him the benefit of the doubt, we owe him to make it up to us. He _is _family and if there's one thing I've learnt from our damn mess it's to trust family."

Sam knows who Dean is talking about and it makes him glad, but still: "he's not family… Not like Bobby," he answers, but he can see that Dean disagrees so he ploughs on: "He didn't come when I called or try to save my soul. Dean, _he made me remember Hell. _You can't put that on purgatory souls, not to mention everything he did after – "

"That stuff doesn't count," argues Dean. "That wasn't him; I don't care what you say. It was Crowley screwing around with him, he wasn't – isn't – like that."

Sam knows that Dean witnessed Castiel's fall from "God – hood" to human and that he has therefore travelled a lot further down that darkened, painful road of forgiveness. Afterwards the angels helped Dean carefully back to earth, seeing as they were a whole lot more gratefully disposed towards the elder Winchester now than ever before. He had, after all, just helped them lead a revolution against a tyrant.

Sam can understand that Dean takes personal sacrifice as seriously as betrayal, but Sam cannot – at least not now – bring himself to forgive Castiel.

At this precise moment he remembers the Pit.

That is not something that can be scrubbed clean with an awkward smile and a "hey, my bad."  
>Although he doesn't know whether he wishes those memories gone either.<br>Most of all he wishes that beings would stop poking to his brain.

Perhaps if Castiel turned into some sort of Gandhi – likeness and tried to save Haiti and other messed up places in the world, then Sam would consider forgiveness, or at least that Cas had served his penance.

"Honestly, man. I don't see your point of view," maintains Sam and it's clear that they won't be agreeing.

Dean gets up, angry, and goes to get his coat.

"I'm gonna find him," he declares, noticing Sam's questioning eyes.

"And what are you gonna do?" asks Sam, seeing Dean, murderous, scary.

"I don't know," growls Dean.

"If you bring him back here I'll kill him," says Sam, because at this moment honesty is probably best.

The door slams behind Dean.

Sam leans back and finishes his beer alone, slowly, relishing the calmness although he wishes that he and Dean had at least parted with a cordial "goodbye." Why the Hell couldn't they receive more than half an hours freedom before rushing towards yet another, possibly – probably – life or death mission. He wonders if the family curse isn't destiny, but rather the fact that they can't _help _wanting to save everyone on the planet. Sam suddenly has a nagging doubt that Dean will end up in serious danger if he tries to find Castiel and Sam wonders whether he should try and help.

Then there's a crash from the kitchen and Sam rushes towards the source, hand automatically finding the gun tucked into his pants.

When he opens the door it is clear to him that there are several ways of dealing with the mental mind – fuck that is the "no more apocalypse risk."

Is Bobby trying to bake _pies? _

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><p><strong><em>Okay, okay, I know I haven't been writing about what happened between becoming "God" and what I am writing now. I like keeping those things vague (yes, I'm evil).<br>Why is Bobby trying to bake pies: Because he's happy that there is no more apocalypse and also I thought it would be delightfully bittersweet (his happiest memories are, after all, of his wife baking) and I needed a reason for Sam to forget that he wants to help Dean... Who doesn't forget everything when faced with Bobby Singer and pies?_**

**_Anywho, tbc... (also, tell me if I'm messing up the writing without a beta then I'll make sure the next chapter is read and approved before putting it out, it'll just take a lot longer)_**


	3. Now I lay me down to sleep

**Now I lay me down to sleep… Who's dream is this anyway**

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><p>Dean sighs and realizes that leaving without a clue to Cas's whereabouts was dumb. He really needs to stop acting on impulse. It always ends in complete mayhem (he particularly remembers crashing Lucifer's and Michael's little wannabe apocalypse. Remembrance of the event causes a bitter smirk to cross his features). Maybe he should call Sam, but he's been on the road for several hours, mainly to calm down and think. Sam is probably sleeping. He doesn't want to disturb his hard – earned peace unless it is absolutely necessary.<p>

Dean has one main contemplation: What is he going to do when he finds Cas?

On the one hand the human (Castiel, human?) – formerly playing God, formerly Angel of the Lord –screwed up. The biggest understatement since Adam and Eve said "my bad" and were kicked out of Eden.

Dean won't lie. His hunter instinct says to kill Castiel. He has committed evil on a major scale, more so than many of the Big Bads they've had to face off against in earlier chapters of their messed up life story. And it's not just towards the world, (that "trying to eliminate Free Will thing" was apparently the end game for everyone who wanted power, but Castiel ought to have known better) but against the Winchesters too.

Castiel had succeeded in sending Dean down another downward spiral of self – hatred that Dean is never sure was because he felt he had failed the world again, or just another person he'd cared about.

And then there had been Sam and that wall of his. That whole year, Sam had been on the touch and go – fine one second, but then random events would spike Hell memories on overdrive. It could do different things to Sam, those memories. Cause apathy, violence, fear, memory loss.

Sam had tried to explain to Dean how his subconscious had shattered during the first taste of Hell, before he'd succeeded in putting himself together and going of to… to kill Castiel (Dean actually shudders at the thought).

Dean figures that those different parts of him (soulless Sam, pained Sam, forgetful, stupid Sam) take over whenever the memories subside, but once Sam comes to terms with whatever particular torture he'd endured (Dean is sure Sam hasn't told him the half of it, although Sam swears up and down that telling him everything helps lift the pain) the _real _Sam returns.

It's actually Sam's theory and he's tried explaining it to Dean on numerous occasions. All Dean knows is that he really hates the version of Sam that doesn't have a soul and had hoped never to see Sam like that again. Surprisingly, it was Sam's inability to take care of himself from time to time that stopped Dean from either going insane or just putting a bullet through his own head.

He finally felt like Sam's older brother again.

But he feels he is going of topic. The real question at present is still Castiel.

He deliberates until he reaches a motel that he can stay at – the blue conquistador (sleazy name and the man behind the counter asks whether Dean wants company, which makes him uncomfortable and means he's going to be sleeping with a shotgun _very _close at hand tonight). But it'll do for the night and he'll call Sam in the morning.

Just before he goes to sleep his mind has almost reached a conclusion as to the solution to the dilemma that is Cas.

* * *

><p>So.<p>

Hell is back in business, souls are once more rolling down the assembly line and Crowley is actually starting to enjoy some part of his job. Once you've oiled the rusty machinery you can whip your employees into proper shape and sit back to enjoy their screams with a cup of tea and a shot of something sloshed into it. There is just one thing missing to ensure Crowley's perfect day.

He's sent out messages to find out where Castiel is located. He shouldn't be hard to find. A gigantic crater, shooting star sightings. And Crowley knows that Castiel is deprived of his relationship to the Winchesters and isn't counting on any protection from their sides.

Crowley takes a sip, a little glad that he doesn't need to think about what to do to Castiel just yet.

He deserves a break.

* * *

><p>Castiel walks outside. The sky is so dark that he can see nothing with these new eyes.<p>

Except… He can feel a weight on his back that comforts him in this darkness. They are familiar muscles that connect via veins and strong tendrils of light and electricity that sparks and crackles with the sheer ferocity of the life that is in those bones and those frames that move so independently of what he wishes of them. They are almost autonomous beings that deign to belong only to him. He has missed them, but now he relishes their feel as feathers (that is a human word that doesn't do the actuality justice. These are not like birds) lightly stroke his cheek.

Armed with these Castiel bravely walks out into the blackness of the night.

He doesn't get far when something pierces briefly through the dark, illuminating trees and forest ground. Castiel follows the light, aware of how ridiculous that must sound outside his own head. He thinks he knows who it is.

* * *

><p>Dean really hates dreaming. Stuff either never makes sense, creates images of things you want and you then miss when you wake up or delves through your worst nightmares and beats you around the head with them, possibly adding an even more disturbing element like when he'd dreamt of Alastair in a pink tutu. Dean will never mention that to anyone.<p>

But it's then ones where he can't dream in friggin _peace _he hates the most. He'd honestly figured those angels would leave him alone by now, but there's one right behind him, following him through the day lit woods he's otherwise been traipsing so peacefully through in this surprisingly relaxing dream.

Dean decides to simply walk away from it and hope it catches the hint, but – of course – angels are about as understanding as beetles, with the added bonus that you can't just squash them when they annoy you (or try to use you and your brother to destroy the world).

Eventually Dean reaches a lake and he can't get further. He decides to get it over with and turns around to yell a bit at the thing to leave him alone for once, dammit.

The problem is that the words get lost somewhere around "can't you just…" and turn into a surprised "…"

Castiel replies with less surprise, because he did have a vague notion that the light he was following was a soul he knows very well. He cannot find an answer to Dean's lack of speech and simply manages an awkward: "Hello Dean."

Dean has a lot of questions, but there's one in particular that succeeds in shoving itself through his mouth via his vocal cords and several other implements: "Cas, what the Hell are you doing in my dream?"

"I – uh, was not aware that this was a dream," answers Castiel. "I thought this was reality."

Dean is not looking at him, but instead at the wings protruding from Castiel's back and he notices for the first time that Castiel isn't wearing his usual trench coat/shirt mix, but just the trousers and shoes. Dean isn't sure anymore whether this is a dream, but he knows that if Castiel is in fact still powerful, then he must die.

The angel blade is in his hand, (it has apparently been there all the time, but Dean doesn't think of the absurdity of the situation) but Castiel grabs Dean's arm as it swings towards his bare chest and twists until there's an audible snap. Dean falls to the ground in pain, aware of the vividness of this "maybe dream" and more of his certainty drains away, because that _really hurt. _

Suddenly Castiel's hand touches his arm and the pain is gone.

"I apologize. I am not aware of the strength that has been returned to me," says Castiel, but Dean doesn't accept the hand and gets up on his own. Castiel looks confused.

Realization hits Dean that this must be a dream, because he remembers lying in the creepy motel, but he still doesn't understand what Castiel is doing there.

"Cas. Are you an angel, like, _out there, _in the real world?" Dean tries to ask, but it sounds strange, because if Castiel is an angel how come he doesn't see that this isn't real.

Castiel doesn't understand. "Dean, this _is _real. Don't you see? God has forgiven me, granted me a second chance. It is the only explanation."

"No," Dean tells him bluntly. "This is not real, we're standing in the middle of the friggin woods, man, and I saw you. When you nuked those souls with your Grace. It's gone, you can't be an angel again."

"Dean. Shall we just – for the moment – agree to disagree," offers Castiel. He _knows _he's an angel again that power, his wings, it all feels more real than a dream would. And how would he have found Dean otherwise, without just transporting out here in the woods?

Dean is nodding, warily. He seems to be on the verge of saying something, but then: "Are those your wings?"

Castiel nods. Of course, Dean has only before seen a shadow of their real form. Although, technically this is a shadow of his wings so that must have been a shadow of a shadow. Sometimes Castiel feels that humans and their words complicate things to the extreme.

"Can I... touch them?"

"That would be ill advisable. Their power would probably liquefy you." Castiel is secretly pleased. He likes getting compliments on his wings.

Dean wonders whether he should touch them to prove his point that this isn't real, but he doesn't quite dare. They unfold and Dean sees the energy surges through the… feathers? Whatever, it looks kinda cool.

Dean wonders whose dream this is anyway, because if Castiel isn't an angel (_please, don't let him be) _then that would make sense, but if Castiel is human… "Screw it, it's all messed up anyway," mutters Dean to himself.

Castiel decides that this would be the best way to prove to Dean that he can be trusted again (_although forgiven, liked, he is slightly less hopeful about that) _and lets his wings fold against his back. Dean shrinks a little into fighting position at the movement. It is like trying to convince a wary rabbit that you aren't about to pounce.

"Dean. I have learned. I am not… filled with the souls anymore," says Castiel and is hurt to see that Dean doesn't relax.

"Yeah? What about all the stuff you did before?" Dean knows that part of this argument was used by Sam, but he wants to hear Castiel say that Crowley tricked him. Dean would be able to partly lie himself into forgiving him.

Castiel seems to struggle with what to answer, _but I shouldn't be explaining myself to this mere man who I sacrificed everything for to begin with. _No. That is not a trusted Cas, that is… Dean had a description once. It went something like: "These cocky sons of bitches always seem to underestimate how awesome we are, right Sammy?"

Castiel doesn't remember when Dean has said this, but it is harboured as a cherished memory from when he was still family.

Dean is still awaiting an answer.

"I have done many… regrettable things during the war. But don't you see, it is all finished. It was all for the best." Castiel doesn't want his words to come out like this, he is using practically the same arguments as before he'd been tainted with purgatory souls.

Dean is disappointed.

"Castiel. You were family once, as close as Sam, but… I will hunt you down and kill you for what you did to Sammy."

Castiel casts his eyes down. His wings move to shield him of their own accord, but the knives stabbing from the inside won't be prevented.

_You're pathetic. You are letting this man, this insect provoke you. You are strong, Castiel, you were God once. We're still inside you. We'll guide you. You can become strong again, much stronger than the "Angel of the Lord." You think this year has been power, wait until you let us in again. _Castiel doesn't want the voices to continue, but the way they mock his own inferiority riles him.

_I'm not weak now.__ I don't need to be God to beat Dean._

Castiel lets his true shape exit the illusion of Jimmy Novaks body. "Dean, you cannot beat me."

His voice makes Dean's eardrums pop and his eyes have been burned from his skull long ago, but he is still barely alive. Castiel senses his shock, awe, fear, anguish and he thinks "_NO" _and he is Cas again, because he doesn't want to be an angel if it means he will kill everybody around him. He kneels down and tries to touch Dean's face, but it is now just a grinning cranium, laughing at Castiel's weakness.

Castiel strokes it and suddenly the woods are no longer black as Dean's soul leaves its human confinement and shows Castiel that they have been standing by a lake.

Castiel's wings seem to ask why he wouldn't want them anymore. Doesn't he love them? They stroke his cheeks again, surprised to find tears. _What are these, _they ask.

"It's a human thing," explains Cas. "You wouldn't understand."

* * *

><p>Castiel awakes to find himself tangled in the bedcovers, sweating and not at all rested. Another thing he must understand about being human. How come one is tired when the act of sleeping is meant to restore your mind and body? And whose dream was that anyway?<p>

* * *

><p>Dean groans as he wakes up.<p>

He really hates dreams. The details of it are already draining from his mind. Castiel was there. What the hell was he doing in his dream?

* * *

><p>Bobby shows Sam how to mix the dough (<em>although he isn't sure what ingredients to use, just a bit of everything) <em>and Sam helps with the filling (_"What is this stuff, it doesn't say anything on the packet. Oh well, smells good, we'll add it")_. They've been baking flawed pies all night, but it's been very enjoyable. So far, they've all been more or less tasteless, apart from that one that had tasted like raw egg and salt. They are on the hunt for the perfect pie and Sam will give it to Dean in celebration for the end of their… something, because it's definitely not retirement. Just back to real, good old, back to basics hunting.

* * *

><p>Castiel just sits for an hour. He has noticed a certain pleasure in thinking during the sunrise and he can hear birds. It makes his first day as human seem to pan out better than his first night.<p>

The dream is perfectly etched into memory. He feels that his perfect memory is some angelic part of him that has sustained itself outside his Grace. So there may be other kept traits that were deemed too unimportant to be directly linked to his Grace and have therefore survived his Fall.

He wishes to understand the dream. He knows that there are professional dream analytics, but how can he explain that part of his dream is about the time when his angelic body was being possessed by evil souls? Possibly this will be hard. Castiel wants to find Dean, to ask whether Dean has experienced the dream, but he is afraid of seeing a Winchester. He is positive that it will only be a question of time before something or somebody that wants him dead (_luckily the angels deem his Fall as enough punishment) _finds him.

"Hello darling."

Castiel doesn't turn his head. He knows that running, fighting, pleading will be useless, so he ignores the voice for a moment and his thoughts wander back to the dream.

Somebody puts a bag over his head and he can't see the light anymore.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Surprisingly, this is tbc^^...<em>**


	4. Business propositions and phone numbers

**_A/N: The reason for my obsession with pie in this story (apart from the fact that it tastes gorgeous and deserves to be associated with the Winchesters) is that I recieved a present in the form of a book called: Classic pies. It basically meant a pie making spree and this needed to be stretched to my writing. Don't hate the pie^^_**

**_Minor OC and language. Very minor._**

**_Again, this is unbeta'ed so mistakes all go to me. Peace._**

* * *

><p><strong>Business propositions and phone numbers<strong>

* * *

><p>Castiel blinks.<p>

If he had known anything about the traditional "bright light in the face" routine coupled with some faceless suits wearing large sunglasses and the wheely table with unknown devices lying on it hidden by a white cloth, he might have laughed.  
>Crowley – standing a couple of metres away from where Castiel is bound to a metal chair – would have looked scandalized, because oldies are goodies and he enjoys a good old torture to achieve what he wants.<br>Castiel might have replied with an oldie like "bite me," but that is really more of a Dean thing, as is knowing that the traditional torture routine is old fashioned and stupid.

Castiel is, in fact, mainly confused. He wonders why Crowley hasn't killed him and dragged him to Hell already. He blinks again and raises his head. He can feel several bruises all over this unpractical body from the trip down here (wherever _here _is), courtesy of Crowley's friends.

"Awake already, are we Cas," says Crowley, another old fashioned, "threatening" opening line that Castiel doesn't know and is therefore intimidated by. That feeling of fear is different from any doubts he has experienced before. He mostly wants to throw up. Crowley is by the way _not allowed to call him Cas_.

"I apologize for requiring your attention so soon after your Fall, but I am very impatient to discuss a few matters with you," continues Crowley, relishing Castiel's humbling position. _Human. _

"You have not taken me to The Pit. Why?" Castiel is surprised that he can find his voice and it is just as deep and gravely as usual. He is succesfully hiding his panic.

"Always straight to business. Haven't you _ever _just done something for the pleasure of it?" growls Crowley.

Castiel remembers a brief time with Dean Winchester at the Den of iniquity. _Seems I'll die a virgin after all. Wait, am I thinking about sex, now?_

"I… do not see the importance of that question now," answers Castiel, almost blushing (but blushing is a very highschool girl thing to do and Castiel wants some of his self respect to remain intact).

"Oh, never mind," mumbles Crowley and he gestures to his henchdemons. They leave the room. Castiel supposes it's a room, because he can't actually see that much of it.

"Here's the thing, Cassie (now that's even worse than Cas): I'm rather disappointed in you and our last business transaction. Seems you broke our deal."

He removes the light slightly from Castiel's face so the ex – angel can appreciate how Crowley with a professional flourish removes the cloth from the table. Castiel doesn't quite understand why so many assorted devices are required for causing pain. The human body can only stand so little after all.

"I _really _wish," continues Crowley, "that I could just sit here and hurt you for a long time, but eventually you will die and where's the fun in that?"

"I don't understand," states Castiel.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "I'm going to offer you a deal, angelboy. Comprende?"

"… No."

Crowley resists the urge to plunge a knife somewhere into Castiel's body, because Castiel shouldn't die yet and there'll be plenty of time to hurt him later.

"What part don't you understand?" _Play nice and you'll get the best deal. _

"Why have you not simply transported me to Hell and performed unlimited torture down there?" asks Castiel.

_Oh yeah. I'd forgotten to tell him that, _thinks Crowley.

"Well, you see, there has been an unforeseen cockup in the original plan. Seems your human soul isn't forfeit to Hell," says Crowley.

"Why?" After everything he's done, Castiel has expected to be right at the top of Hells list of "one way ticket to damnation."

"Well – and this I might add is in my opinion ridiculously small printed – your human soul is, in fact, brand new. It isn't tainted at all, unlike your angelic self. Rules are rules." Crowley looks slightly pained.

"So… I'm free?" asks Castiel, disbelief in his voice. _Disbelief, that's a new tone of voice for me._

"Well, ignoring the fact that you aren't actually free at this precise moment… yes," grumbles Crowley, sounding most of all like a small boy who has been denied his favourite ice cream.

Castiel is surprised to hear this news from Crowley, the demon who ought to be intent on causing him pain, but he isn't complaining. Something inside him (is this my heart or my soul) lightens. Suspicion isn't far behind. "Why are you telling me this?" asks Castiel.

"Like I said, I want to make a deal with you and the _terms _are going to be clear and concise. You are going to Hell, believe me."

* * *

><p>Dean is sure that something weird happened the previous night (and he's not talking about the guy from the motel who looked very sorry to see him go this morning).<p>

Luckily he's Dean Winchester and he doesn't dwell too much on things he can't remember, unlike his brother or Castiel. If you can't remember it then it isn't important (or it is important, you just don't wanna know).

So Dean Winchester focuses on finding Castiel, because that is important right now. He breathes deeply and turns up the music inside his impala. This feels sort of… good. Like he's on a case again. Granted, Sammy isn't sitting in the seat beside him to groan at his choice of song (Led Zeppelin is _so _not mullet rock. Zeppelin rules), but he is just a phone call away. _Hopefully he's rested now, _thinks Dean as he dials the number.

* * *

><p>Sam and Bobby have been awake all night, as if in a sort of desperate frenzy to do something. The magic pie formula still escapes them and they have been forced to accept defeat for the moment. Today they're going shopping for more ingredients.<p>

They're sitting in silence, enjoying a couple of beers when Sam's mobile rings.

"Hey. You found Cas yet?" Sam nods to himself. "Yeah, I'll just go get it."

Sam leaves Bobby alone in the kitchen, but returns a moment later with his laptop: "Right, so signs. Dean, you realize he might not have landed anywhere close to us?"… "I'm talking "not close like China," or "not close as in a different century"" … "Dude, you're not going to China" … "Well, for one, there's the plane" … "Yeah, I'm checking."

Bobby walks to the fridge and gets another couple of beers, opening them and putting one in front of Sam who nods gratefully. Bobby sits for a few moments just enjoying the crazyness that is a discussion between the Winchesters: "C'mon, Metallica isn't calming" .. "I am _not _scared of clowns anymore" … "Yeah, well you would be too if your older brother had done that to you the day after showing you "It"" … "jerk."

Finally Sam finds something that draws their conversation to the original subject: "Okay, so Minnesota experienced something weird a couple of days ago" … "place called Winchester, if you can believe it" … "Yeah, I think he might be trying to tell us something too" … "Oh right, yeah, this basically just happened so it's sketchy, but apparently there was a lightning strike in a field that left a crater and, get this: All the remaining crops started growing like crazy, as did the trees and assorted plants in an area of two miles" … "it's not a lot to go on, just local news" … "Yeah, I know I'm awesome. Hey, Dean?" … "watcha gonna do about Cas?" … "Yeah. Of course. No, I'm sorry about what I said, I'm just having a hard time forgiving and forgetting, you know?" … "Good luck" … "Oh, me and Bobby… we're going on a hunt, sorta."

* * *

><p>Castiel looks as confused as ever, but also lifts an eyebrow at Crowley. "I don't understand what you have to bid that would be worth damning my soul."<p>

"Honestly mate, it's more about working of a debt you technically already have with me. Unfortunately that doesn't swing with the rule makers so this is more a sort of… forgiveness transaction, if you will."

Castiel shakes his head and manages a small smile. The act is a little unfamiliar, especially now that the mouth and lips are his own and not borrowed.

"You have nothing to offer me," Castiel says and Crowley grins to himself. Time for some fun.

"I can give you peace."

Castiel returns to his classic "confused look."

"Here's the deal, straight up, no hidden sub clauses. You're human, you messed up your gig as an angel and screwed all your friends and loved ones while on your little "Godly rampage." Most every pointy – toothed nasty is out for a piece of you. Your precious Winchesters aren't going to help and if you go to heaven I'm betting your former employees/slave angels won't invite you in with open arms. You getting me so far, Cassie?"

Castiel nods, wondering when to tell Crowley to stop calling him that. He's currently missing the days when Crowley referred to him as "sir."

Crowley moves behind him, grips his shoulders and practically whispers in his ear: "Basically, the one person right now not gunning for revenge on your arse is… me. I'm a business man and I know a good deal when I see one. And the deal is this: Work for me and I'll protect you."

Crowley already wants to celebrate and pat himself on the back. The utterly lost look on Castiel's face as Crowley repeats the offer Castiel gave him a year ago is priceless. It's almost as satisfying as the future prospect of basically making Castiel his bitch. Because Crowley is certain that Castiel will accept the deal. And if he doesn't... well, then Crowley will change his mind using some different tools for convincing. He hopes Castiel will decline.

"I'll… I'll become a demon?" asks Castiel

Crowley nods: "Yes, and you'll do my bidding, torture and paperwork and so on and so forth. But…" Crowley walks until he is standing right in front of Castiel, blocking the light (it's menacing and another old trick from the book of "intimidation for dummies") "… You'll be safe for the rest of eternity. I'll guarantee that."

Castiel lets his head hang in defeat. It's actually more than he'd hoped. He'd been expecting torment, but he was being offered… Not salvation, but not bad, considering.

And then Dean Winchester pops into his train of thought and ruins Castiel's attempts at ignoring his own conscience.

* * *

><p>Sam and Bobby are in a local supermarket. Bobby does buy supplies here on occasion, but he and Sam have gone on a shopping spree now: Flour, milk, butter, stuff that looks useful. Their shopping cart is pretty full. They've currently split up in this maze of products so that Bobby can hunt for spices (they'd agreed that the pie would be less tasteless if they added spices) and Sam is on the lookout for apples. It's strange, observing the normality of shopping people. Sam almost feels like them for the moment. Hunting is practically driven from his mind, but there is still Dean's search for Castiel that leaves deep traces of worry inside Sam. He feels he ought to have helped more, but… He is still not sure about Cas.<p>

Then Sam accidentally smashes his trolley into the woman innocently trying to choose a cucumber and now hunting isn't on his mind any longer.

"Oh, sorry," he says as he rushes to her aid. She's standing on one foot and rubbing her knee, but most of her attention is focused obviously on Sam and he feels uncomfortable and… a little pleased.

She grasps his shoulder, grips her leg in mock pain and winks at him.

_I mean, she's kinda hot and all, but it would be wrong._

"I'll live," she tells him and drags him back to reality. "Who do I have to thank for my bruise?" she asks him, taking her hand away and standing up properly.

"Uh, I'm Sam. And you?"

"Sally O'Hara." She glances behind him, noticing the trolley. "Are you expecting to need food for the next three years?"

"I'm… making a pie," he finishes lamely. "Not really sure how it goes, so it's trial and error."

"That's allowing for some error," Sally states. "Do you have any idea what kinda pie you're making?"

"Uh, apple. It's for my brother." _Stop saying "uh," you sound like a friggin teenager._

"I can give you a recipe. If you want," she adds and Sam nods, grateful that this conversation is actually going somewhere, even though he's not sure quite in which direction.

She smiles and hunts for a pencil and a piece of paper.

Half an hour later he and Bobby have left with an actual plan for their amazing apple pie and a phone number scribbled in the corner of the paper.


	5. The importance of male fashion

**The importance of male fashion accessories**

* * *

><p>Dean dresses up in the classic black suit and calls around town: "Agent Lemmy. I'm here to enquire as to the "so – called" crater."<p>

There are a couple of suspicious inhabitants, one asking whether his parents liked Motörhead and a few wondering whether he's there in connection with a government conspiracy that is trying to cover a UFO landing by wiping their minds. There's one who actually asks if he's with the MIB.

Dean uses his soothing voice, constantly wishing he has Sam's way of looking like he's just been kicked, and assures the more doubtful that it has indeed just been a freak nature outburst, yes, every precaution against "whatever this person is fearing" is being taken.

Based on all the information he draws the conclusion that this is probably Castiel's landing site. If not, then definitely something angelic. Demons wouldn't cause waist length grass and sudden outbursts of trees all over the place.

Finally Dean asks whether there are any newcomers in town.

_Why don't people just answer a government official instead of asking so many questions, _thinks Dean, when he then gets a dozen suspicious "why do you wanna know?"

In the end he's directed to the motel.

"Agent Lemmy." The man behind the counter looks uninterested.

" I'm here to enquire as to whether you have anybody staying here," says Dean, exasperated at the lack of response he's been getting all over town.

"You're too late," the man answers and flicks through a local newspaper, bored already with the conversation.

"Excuse me?" asks Dean, trying to keep his cool, but getting seriously annoyed.

"Some of your guys already arrested him."

"What guys?" He's not feeling a little panic, nope. _Demons, angels, hunters, monsters… dammit._

"You know, black suits and all. Came for him this morning. Weird though, they just… sort of appeared and walked up the stairs. Wondered if I should call them, but, you know, you government people don't like bein' disturbed. Guessed he'd been arrested, cos' he wasn't up there when I checked. His coat was."

"Coat?"

"Yeah, trenchcoat, tie, dark blue jacket... oh, and a necklace in the pocket. I remember thinking he was a tax accountant when he checked in. He done some sort of swindling with the numbers then?" The man suddenly looks very interested.

Dean clears his throat: "Official business sir. I'm gonna have to confiscate the items you listed."

"Why? He owes me money for the night."

Dean takes the hint and draws out his wallet, putting a few notes on the counter. The man gathers it to him like he's afraid it'll burst into flame if he isn't quick and then picks up a box that has been lying on the floor beside him, putting it in front of him.

"Can I see the room," asks Dean and his voice dares the man to argue. Dean almost wants an excuse to hit someone, but the man just points him up the stairs and says third door on the left.

Dean takes the box with him, holding it tightly pressed against his chest with both hands. There's something inside there that he'd thought was lost forever.

He opens the door to another motel room – they all look the same in the end – and walks to the bed. He sits down in it and opens the box like a ten year old opening a birthday present. He discards the jacket, coat and tie on the bed, but it isn't in the box. He starts rummaging around the trench coat pockets and finds it. He holds it in front of his face, remembering all the details that makes it his. The small figure attached to black string. It reminds him of several important experiences in his life – most of them connected to Sam.

Receiving it that Christmas. It wasn't just up there on the list as one of the top three best Christmasses ever, but it was also the day Dean finally admitted the truth to Sam. Dean has always wished that he'd been able to lie for just a little longer, keep Sam in the dark. Of course, Sam had probably guessed it long ago, but there was something about saying it out loud that made it official. "_But dad said there weren't any monsters under my bed?" "That's because he'd already checked there."_

Still a good Christmas though, better than most they'd had.

Next big step in the strange journey of his necklace was around the time they'd been trying to find God, wasn't it? Yes, he remembered. Strangely enough, it was only partly Sam that had Dean throwing it in the trash. Castiel's defeat, his words "it's worthless."  
>And Dean gave up just like that. Dean looks back at that moment as his big betrayal. Giving up on his brother, probably the dumbest thing he's ever done, with the exception of the chick at the gas station… Dean shudders upon remembering her (him). That had been unexpected.<p>

Step three: Castiel was a megalomaniacal, powerful creature being guided by practically every evil son of a bitch they'd ever killed. Also, there'd been Crowley, the multiplying of Demons walking the earth and the average monster that was way too cocky, following the opening of Purgatory.  
>Sam was practically Sam again, (Dean doesn't dwell on Sam's memories of Hell at the moment) and Dean wasn't actually drinking quite as much as during Lucifer's short reign.<br>Still. Fun times.

Christmas and Dean hadn't really been expecting to celebrate. What was there to celebrate?

They'd received a call from Bobby to have them "get their asses moving, this was heavy" and they'd made all haste to reach the old hunter. Upon arriving they'd found an actual Christmas tree standing on the kitchen table, tiny and deformed, missing most of the fake needles and with a small star taped awkwardly to the top. There were three presents lying underneath.

Dean had been torn between running, yelling "what the Hell?" and asking which one was his.

Sam wasn't surprised at the Yule festivities planned and yanked Dean towards the tree before he could protest. Bobby picked up two of the presents, handed one to Dean and another to Sam.

Dean's was an Ozzy CD ("_kid, you really need to get rid of the cassettes_") and Sam's a book (_Dean raised his eyebrows, but Sam insisted that Jules Verne was awesome). _Apparently, hunting accessories was off the gift agenda.

Dean had raised his hands and mumbled an apology that he hadn't brought anything. Bobby had shrugged it off in true Bobby style: "Shut up, idjit."

Sam had picked up the last packet and handed it to Dean. "Merry Christmas."

And it'd been lying inside.

Still, no chick flick, just Dean choking on a "thanks" and putting it around his neck where it belonged. The lump in his throat was coincidental, nothing to do with the moment.

Not long after Christmas and the situation with Castiel exploded. Dean doesn't want to think about it really. Suffice to imagine much pain and death.

His necklace had suddenly been more than just something Sam had given to him twice and he'd vowed to never throw away again. The angels – a few of them that had taken to Castiel's original idea of Free Will – wanted to use it for its true purpose: Finding God.

Dean had scoffed. Obviously God hadn't been running the show for a long time. He was probably leaning back in a comfy chair and enjoying the destruction while eating popcorn.

And then it had started "sensing" God. Growing warmer and then colder, as though God was hanging about, but not too close for some weird reason.

In the beginning Dean thought it was because of Castiel. He was probably watching them. But then he remembered that he didn't believe Castiel was God.

This was around the time the angels had silently started rebelling. Not all of them, most of them followed Castiel as blindly as they'd followed Michael or Raphael. But a few.

And Sam and Dean decided it was time to talk to God. Dean's necklace would guide them.

Turned out that it would be used for an entirely different purpose in the end.

He picks up the tie and folds it neatly into the box, followed by the jacket and the trench coat. Then he stands up slowly, feeling the familiar weight around his neck.

He walks around the room, looking for clues, something the man downstairs wouldn't notice because he wasn't looking for it.

Around the other side of the bed is an overturned chair. When Dean crouches beside it he spots a small stain and runs his hand along it. A slight red dyes his fingers. Is Castiel hurt?

Right beside it there's powder. Sulphur.

Dean closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. The trail is pretty cold, but he supposes that Castiel is alive for now. Otherwise he would have been killed as soon as the Demons found him. Alive, but probably in a large amount of pain.

He takes a few steady breaths so as to think rationally about his next step, but draws a blank.

Then he has a brilliant idea.

Time to call in a favour.

* * *

><p>Castiel sits there, willing himself to lose his soul so that the blasted thing won't keep reminding him of "the right thing to do." But, sadly, he knows exactly what he's going to answer.<p>

* * *

><p>Sam wonders how things are going with Dean.<p>

He also wonders how he and Bobby have actually succeeded in making an edible pie.

He wonders whether Cas is still alive and hopes that Sam will be able to forgive him.

Somewhere in his thoughts, he's wondering whether to dial that number.

But most of all, he wonders how the Hell Bobby manages to have so much time left over for him and Dean when hunters are constantly asking for his help.

Sam can conclude that hunters are friggin annoying.

No really, they call at all hours of the day and you have to pretend to be FBI, homeland security, CDC and/or ten different police force headquarters. Also, he and Bobby have been assisting in several hunts, cover stories and hiding people from the police. It's amazing they've even had time to bake at all.

Not that it's been a bad day, but hunting with Dean is a lot simpler than spending the day with Bobby. Sure, they get hunted by occasional monsters, witches, ghosts and demons, but at least they're allowed time to drink a beer and sneer at each others taste in music. With Bobby it's all work and no play.

There's a knock on the door and Bobby shouts he'll get it.

Sam is scanning a book from the sixteenth century, written by a French monk who obviously couldn't spell, to look for an old rite that does something or other. He doesn't know why it's necessary, just that the voice on the other end of the phone sounds rather urgent.

After locating the correct page and hanging up on the grateful hunter Bobby calls him from outside. His help is required.

Well, at least he feels needed.

* * *

><p>"No deal."<p>

Crowley is openly shocked.

"What?"

Castiel sighs and wishes someone would be here to pat him on the back. "I decline."

Crowley is torn. On the one hand he feels he spun such a good deal that he's disappointed in his own business skills. On the other hand he gets to put other methods into use.

"So, I guess it would be pointless to point out that you won't be saved at the last minute, you're scorned in Heaven and the Winchesters hate your guts."

Castiel stares at him, blue eyes unblinking.

"Fine, fine. I guess I'll have to let you live then."

Castiel is surprised again. He's been that a lot within the past day. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, don't misunderstand. You're not quite free yet, sunshine." He walks to his precious table and picks up a knife, holding the point to his index finger and twirling it while he returns to stand in front of Castiel.

"The world is… Not a nice place for a human, Cassie. You're weak and easy to hurt. And, well every device is basically useful on you, happily."

Castiel continues to stare into Crowley's face, his features blank, his eyes very wide. Crowley actually feels uncomfortable staring into them. Though he does get an idea.

"Last chance to reconsider." Says Crowley. He's decided to play fair, after all.

Castiel slowly shakes his head.

Crowley sighs. He really likes this suit.

Very soon thereafter there is screaming.

Crowley has never heard Castiel scream before.

He sort of likes the sound.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I'm... astounded at what I've just done to Cas. I honestly love Castiel, but apparently I'm sadistic to fictional characters. Don't hate me for what Crowley has just done, it was Crowley... I promise.<strong>_


	6. Are humans wiser than angels?

**_A/N: Well, this is definitely not what I'd planned on writing for this chapter, but apparently my story has taken over - creepy story. Anywho, well done to Iryann for guessing how incredibly evil Crowley can be (I promise it wasn't me, Crowley possessed my brain or something. I'd never hurt Cas). _**

**_There's some O/C in this chapter, but it's okay. It's not some incredibly hot girl that's gonna be the next love item for the Winchesters or Cas. Just some more angels:_**

**_Zuriel, w_****_hose name means: My rock is God - Hopefully I'm not the only one thinking "rock music" and not an actual rock. Zuriel has an awesome name.  
><em>****_Zophiel: God's spy. A fallen angel, but not evil - kinda like early days Cas.  
><em>****_Briathos: Angel who thwarts demons.  
><em>****_Karael: Angel with the power to thwart demons._**

* * *

><p><strong>Are humans wiser than angels?<strong>

* * *

><p>Sam and Bobby let themselves fall onto the sofa, holding a beer each, and sigh, relieved. Sure, there's still the risk that there'll be another knock on the door, but they're counting on there not being any more desperate hunters calling for the day – Bobby has disconnected the phone.<br>Many of them were really amateur too; they shouldn't be in the hunting business at all. Sam feels bad giving advice to an eighteen year old that's probably going to be dead within the year.

Being free from apocalypses and angels and crazy demons and wannabe gods is _hard_. Suddenly everybody expects you to be on alert for every other creature and hunter on the planet. It was simpler – if not easier – back when he and Dean and Bobby (and Cas) were battling one big thing at a time.

They let the bottles clink together and take a long swig.

"So," says Sam. "That was…"

"Yup," answers Bobby.

"You go through this every day?"

Bobby shrugs. "Not so much around the, you know, apocalypse, but… I dunno, seems lately everybody's huntin' monsters."

Sam looks impressed and drinks some more beer.

"Speakin' of huntin'" begins Bobby. "I mean, when Dean finds Castiel… What are you two gonna do?"

"What do you mean?"

Bobby seems to be struggling to find words, then gives up and drinks some more beer. Sam cautiously follows suit.

"Well, it's you two," continues Bobby. "You've done all the big fish, all that's left… Well, you don't really need to deal with that. Just look at all the other idjits dying to kill themselves."

"What, you think we'll just drop the job."

Bobby shrugs again. "A few years ago you'd be throwing yourself at the idea."

Sam scoffs. "That's a long time ago Bobby."

"Well, what about that girl?"

"Yeah, I don't know Bobby," says Sam and tries to cover his embarrassment with more beer.

Bobby looks slightly worried.

"What are you thinking about, Sam?" he asks.

Sam swallows the last of his beer and considers his answer: "Think about it Bobby. Jess, Maddison, Jo… they're all dead. Whenever we try to leave the life, it always comes back to us. And anyone caught in the crossfire gets hurt. Guess you can call us institutionalized to the hunting life. It's just not worth turning away from anymore and hasn't been for a long time."

When Sam looks away awkwardly, Bobby uses the moment to glance sadly at the youngest Winchester. Then he clears his throat and gets up. "I'll, uh, go and get another beer, alright?"

Sam nods.

Bobby shouts from the kitchen: "Problem might not be you boys,"

"Yeah?" yells Sam, smiling again, feeling relaxed after a long day.

Bobby returns with another two beers. They drink in silence for a bit.

"You were gonna say something?" asks Sam.

Bobby nods slightly. "Well, maybe you and your brother have been messed about by everyone high up for so long that you're used to everyone trying to kill you all the time. Not everyone wants to kill you, Sam. You should call her. Think about it."

Sam shrugs in a way that says "_huh, the man's got a point."_

They drink for a bit.

"You know, Bobby?" says Sam. Bobby turns to look at him. "I never thought I'd say this, but I could really go for some pie."

* * *

><p>Dean folds his hands and looks up, closing his eyes for effect.<p>

"Zuriel, whose name is the most awesome in the heavens, get your friggin' ass down here. You owe me."

He opens his eyes slowly, waiting for the rustle of wings that has become so familiar to him.

Dean is also used to the absence of that sound, but still kicks the side of the bed and growls: "Dude, you don't appear and I'll shave your damn wings off, you hear?"

Nothing for over a minute, then Zuriel appears behind him, along with three other angels. They're all dressed in black suits – three men and a woman (Dean notices that she's pretty hot).

"Our wings are not damned Mr. Winchester," says the angel standing to the left of Zuriel, as if stating a fact.

"Yeah, no offence meant," mutters Dean, looking at Zuriel.

Zuriel takes a step forward and awkwardly holds his hand out for Dean to shake. Dean grabs the hand and is a little proud that he's the one who taught Zuriel such a basic human action.

"There was no need to threaten us to make us arrive," says Zuriel and steps back again.

Dean shrugs. "Who're your bodyguards?" he asks.

"This is Zophiel -" Zuriel points towards the angel who spoke before.

"-Briathos -" The second male inclines his head slightly.

"- and Karael," he finishes and the woman tries to copy Zuriel's act and shake Dean's hand. Her grip makes Dean wince and he hears a bone crack. She lets go, horrified and Dean feels Zuriel's hand stroke his own gently. Dean cautiously moves his fingers and is relieved when there is no more pain.

"I apologize Mr. Winchester," she mumbles and casts her eyes down, as though Dean is going to punish her.

"Call me Dean," he responds per automatic. "So, Zuriel, what's with the legion of angels here?"

"You would not be calling unless it was of the utmost importance. I decided to bring my… _friends (_the word is used carefully, as though he isn't used to it) for support."

Dean nods, but decides that he isn't going to trust any of them. They are angels after all.

"Dean Winchester, what is it you require?" asks Zuriel as the other angels stand silently behind him. They could be made of wax, they look so eerily dead. Dean really wishes that angels would blink sometimes.

"Cas is missing," Dean states bluntly, knowing that the best way to make an angel get what it is you're saying is to get straight to the point.

Zuriel looks like he doesn't understand and the other angels seem to bristle with anger at the name.'

"Castiel, the false God walks the earth as human now, abandoned by all. W_hy _would you wish to seek him and free him from his punishment," asks Briathos. "Unless you plan to kill him?" he adds as an afterthought.

The other angels look at Dean for assurance, as though he is some sort of saviour. Dean wonders of that's what they really think of him after he assisted the angels in their revolution against Castiel. He wishes they wouldn't.

"I saved him once," Dean answers, remembering how bright Castiel's grace was before it was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I'm going to save him again." This announcement clears all doubt from Dean's mind. He's said he's going to save Cas, there's no way he will kill him now.

The angels look crestfallen.

"Dean, we will not assist in such a task. Castiel is an abomination to heaven. Why does he deserve to be saved?" asks Zuriel.

Dean thinks for a moment. "Your God," he starts to say. "He's like some sort of big forgiver. As far as I remember you're forced to give everyone a second chance."

Karael shakes her head. "We are warriors of the Lord. We are here to smite not to redeem," she tells him and her voice suggests that she thinks Dean is a child, someone who needs to be taught. Dean has definitely grown tired of creatures talking to him like that.

"Listen you angelic bitches. If you're gonna go all "mightier and wiser than thou" on me then I don't need you. Go and screw around with somebody else. If you're gonna help me then I want you to friggin' shut up, understood?"

Zuriel nods and the others stay unmoving, but at least they haven't disappeared.

Dean continues: "Because of you and your damn "destiny crap" I've lost practically everyone. You're gonna help me salvage what I've got left after this whole mess. Then I'm going home, eating some pie and you can go back to your _heaven _and leave me alone. For now, I need you and you're not gonna argue, because if we're talking about people who've messed up then I'm putting every angel at the top of that list.

Dean takes a last breath to end his speech: "At least Cas chose to repent and now I'm gonna redeem him."

The angels have bowed their heads and are boring holes into the motel floor. Zuriel nods again.

"We will help you Dean Winchester. What is it you require?" he asks again and this time Dean is sure that they're on his side.

"Anyone here up to smiting some demons?"

All four angels light up like he's just announced an early Christmas.

* * *

><p>Castiel has received some morphine because Crowley is feeling particularly generous today. He also knows he has all the time in the world to hurt him.<p>

"Cas, Cas, Cas. You know you were smarter as an angel," Crowley says. Castiel doesn't reply and Crowley is afraid that he has already broken him. The annoying thing is that Castiel is still staring at him, even though he can't see him. Crowley can't believe he's feeling unnerved by a simple, blind human (apart from the Winchesters and he'll be visiting them as soon as he's closed this deal).

"Castiel?" Crowley tries the full name, but Castiel still doesn't move. Crowley walks over to him and checks his pulse. He's relieved at the steadiness of it, but Castiel is just irritating him now with his stubbornness.

"Alright, no need to act childishly," grumbles Crowley to Castiel and decides it's about time to reopen his offer.

"Castiel," he begins, liking the way the name tickles the vocal chords and rolls over the tongue. "Why are you really holding onto this?" he asks. "Trust me, the human life holds no surprises, no happiness. You'll just crawl with your belly over the muddy earth and end up dying pitiful and alone. You have no one to _love _you," – damn he hates saying that word, it makes him nauseous – "no one is going to care. You won't be able to see the glory of your father's ridiculous creation.  
>Or is it because of the Winchesters. Some sort of stupid idea of bravado they've put in your head. They're probably celebrating your death right now. Life only holds pain," – he walks behind Castiel, but Castiel continues looking ahead – "and betrayal."<br>He grips Castiel by the hair and pulls his head back so that Castiel is forced to gaze unseeingly into his face.

"Castiel? You're probably going to Hell anyway. You might as well get something out of it."

Castiel opens his mouth and Crowley is just waiting for the "yes."

Castiel's voice is slurred by the painkiller. "I… will not… bow. If you wish to continue hurting me… do so. If you are going to release me… I won't survive anyway. It'll be nice to fall asleep and finally… be at peace."

Crowley lets go of him in disgust and takes his anger out on the table, gripping it with both hands and flinging it into a distant wall.

Strangely enough this gives him another idea. Castiel is really an inspiration to work on.

"Trust me darling," says Crowley. "You don't want to fall asleep."

He snaps his fingers and Castiel is standing in a room. At first he smiles uncertainly at the return of his eyes, but then he recognizes where he is.

He wants his eyes cut out again.

* * *

><p><strong><em>TBC very shortly. Next chapter might feature the return of someone awesome, but it could be that I don't have space. In that case it's in two chapters. There, now I've warned you^^<em>**


	7. Sweet dreams are made of this

**_A/N: Ok, so my promised "return of awesome character" couldn't fit into this chapter... So it'll be next one^^_**

**_Thank you to my consistent reviewers, I live and breathe on your awesomeness_**

**_Warning: Totally non - graphic torture... I'm wondering whether I should have put a warning sign up in one of my former chapters, but hopefully you've survived. I just felt like putting a warning here._**

**_Without further ado..._**

* * *

><p><strong>Sweet dreams are made of this…<strong>

* * *

><p>"The funny thing about this is, Cas, it's all you. All I have to do is take a stroll into your subconscious and you'll supply the rest. So. What is hiding in here? What are your nightmares, because I doubt they're pleasant."<p>

Crowley puts a hand on Castiel's shoulder and surveys the room. It's an early version of Hell, the days when it was mostly Alastair and Lilith running the joint. Crowley always figured they'd done an okay job – Lilith had some imagination, Alastair a knife. It wasn't bad with those two around, except for their blind faith in Lucifer. But Crowley. Crowley is modern, he runs with the times. If you insist on staying around the Spanish Inquisition torture the rest of the world will hurry up and throw an atom bomb on you before you can say "let's burn these witches and heathens."

Castiel's pretty blue eyes have widened, giving the impression that he's a deer caught in the headlights. Crowley grins. Seems he hit the jackpot.

"You see, Cas?" whispers Crowley in his ear. "You can't escape, even in your dreams."

Castiel doesn't answer, but Crowley can feel him shivering a little underneath the trenchcoat he's wearing in the dream. Crowley wonders what could have him fearful when his artistry with the knife has failed so miserably.

The answer arrives when he sees the rack that appears suddenly in the dream – the bloodied carcass hanging from it, eyeless, teeth ripped out and flesh hanging in ribbons. It's right in front of them and so damaged that Crowley cannot see who it is, though he's guessing it's Castiel.

Then the soul tries to speak and Castiel takes a step forward and attempts to touch its cheek. His hand never quite reaches, it's as though the soul is moving further away every time Castiel tries.

"Dean Winchester. You will not make deals with demons," says Castiel and he thinks this is reality. "We're coming to save you."

It's not Castiel after all, thinks Crowley. Will the angel stop thinking about the damn Winchesters for a moment and worry about himself? No, of course not. Crowley considers whether the only way to make Castiel give in is to threaten Dean and Sam, but he doesn't want to drag the Winchesters into the business as leverage. They'd just mess it up for him. They'd tell Castiel not to give in to a demon again and Castiel will listen like the dumb dog he is. Apparently this business will have to be handled more delicately than Crowley originally thought.

Alastair enters the room and Crowley suddenly knows what Castiel is seeing. This is the day when Dean Winchester first picked up the knife.

Crowley gets a chair and some popcorn from inside Castiel's mind and sits back to watch the show.

* * *

><p>Dean is thinking back on Hell. When he first met Castiel. He can't remember being dragged out, but he thinks his soul was so broken that he wasn't all himself down there anyway. He has distant memories of hating the smell, the screams, the sights. Later on he'd grown to ignore them, just keep cutting and feel how each wound on his soul would be reflected in his victims flesh. Dean knows he wanted to hurt, but he can't remember the feeling of want. Right now, Hell is an old nightmare, brought back because he's worried that Castiel is there right now.<p>

He's partly right.

"We can find the demons for you," says Zuriel. "They're far from here though – several continents."

"You can take me there though," says Dean and Zuriel nods. The others have been disappearing and reappearing for the last hour, apart from Zophiel. Dean doesn't know what is up with the angel who hasn't said anything apart from his first comment.

He nudges Zuriel. "What's up with stoner – face over there?" he asks.

"I trust him," says Zuriel, simply.

Dean has changed from the black suit to his usual jeans and shirt and he's simply been biting his nails for the duration of the angels search, frustrated that he can't help. He's also suspicious about Zophiel, especially because angels are either naïve as hell or clever, scheming bitches working for someone up in heaven. Dean knows Zuriel belongs to the first category, as do the other two, but Zophiel… He's different to his companions.

Zuriel seems to notice his mistrust. "Dean. I want you to repay me with a little faith. I didn't serve Castiel in heaven and I served you in your war against him. Please."

Dean is surprised that an angel is talking so respectfully to him, but apparently it's because he's currently the new golden boy of heaven. Dean dislikes that idea, it sounds to him like a nice way of saying "heavens bitch."

He nods once to Zuriel, earning him a stare that is probably meant to reflect gratitude, but mostly just looks blank. Angels really need to work on those outward emotions.

The problem with Zuriel is that he reminds Dean too much of early days Cas, just with less demand for respect.

When Dean had been met by the angels demanding his help because Castiel (or what he'd become) was off the rails, evil souls practically taking over the heavens and the world. Dean had replied with a colourful rejoinder and they'd tried again, this time asking politely if he'd assist. All the time Castiel had become less Castiel and more purgatory souls. And the power had started leaking into heaven – apparently this could spell another apocalypse. One the angels didn't want, simply because they wouldn't win.

It started getting weird after the whole deal with Chuck. Not that it hadn't been weird long before that, but _Chuck? _Dean is still having trouble understanding a whole lot. It was all a big mess of searching for God, being dragged up to Heaven and facing Castiel once more.

Surprisingly he and Sam had only seen Castiel three times since he'd first asked them to bow before him.

Once they'd been out hunting, but were through for the night. Dean was having an unexpected relapse into Hell and awoke sweating and feeling like he could down a bottle of Jack. There hadn't been a comforting rustling of feathers or a gust of wind – Castiel wasn't an angel anymore. Just a glimpse, really, before Dean suddenly fell asleep again and didn't dream for the rest of the night.

Then there was the time when Sam had been captured by Demons. Demons working for Crowley. Apparently Hell was in chaos and Demons were having themselves a party on earth. Apart from Crowley and his friends. They were working for the new "God." From their demented speech Sam had deduced that these Demons believed that Castiel was the next Lucifer and Lucifer wasn't pleased with the humans. They were going to simply cut themselves small slices of Sam, but Dean had killed most of them, exorcised a few and the rest had run. Dean Winchester when angry is not good to hang around and messing with Sammy isn't a good idea.

When Sam had asked him afterwards how he'd found him, Dean hadn't been able to remember and Sam swore that Castiel had been present a second before Dean broke down the door.

Apparently someone was looking out for them.

Last time… Dean stops himself. He doesn't want to think and a sudden urge to drink comes over him, but he represses it.

He's always been good at repressing.

* * *

><p>"Dean, don't."<p>

Dean slowly picks up the knife, but it's painful to move because he hasn't been healed yet. Only his green eyes have been returned so he can see what he's doing.

"No." growls Castiel, looking fiercely at Dean, almost like the angel he once was.

She begs for mercy.

"We're coming to save you."

The woman's pleas stop after a short while and the first seal is broken.

Crowley is pleased. He's been rerunning the dream three times, it's that entertaining. Each time Castiel ends up on his knees as Dean tortures soul after soul – with Alastair keeping an affectionate arm around Dean's shoulder as if he's a favourite son.

Now, Crowley decides, it's time to move on, find a different, dark place in Castiel's mind. There are so many of them. The problem is that Castiel seems to be waiting for something new to happen here and Crowley is having trouble moving on to a new scene. It is still Castiel who is unknowingly in control in here. It makes this a dangerous place for Crowley to visit, but the sub consciousness is an ideal place for Castiel to torture himself. Only Castiel really knows what will break him.

Dean's soul is blackened and soiled, Crowley muses how the angels ever managed to put the human back together, there's so little left. Dean's eyes are actually black, his smile twisted and fake and he smells like blood and ash. Crowley laughs as he realizes that the person Dean is hurting the most is Castiel, several years after he'd even been in Hell.

They've reached the end of the dream. It's another soul, but it usually just ends by fading to black and then flickering back to the start, like an endless roll of film.

Suddenly green flashes in Dean's eyes and the soul in front of him manages to catch his gasping "sorry."

She murmurs "I forgive you."

Crowley frowns. This hasn't happened before.

Castiel gets up from the floor – where he has been kneeling with his head bowed in defeat – and briefly caresses Dean's dirty cheek. "We're coming to save you, Dean Winchester."

Dean nods like he understands what Castiel is telling him years in the future, in a nightmare.

Crowley, annoyed at the turn things are taking in the dream, manages to pull Castiel's now unresisting mind away from the scene where Dean's eyes are no longer demonic and his twisted soul is burning brighter with hope than any human Crowley has ever come across. Castiel looks hopeless at the thought of leaving Dean in Hell for what would be another three years.

Crowley's reassured that this is the best idea he's had in a long time. Castiel will soon be begging to go to Hell.

Castiel's next thoughts are a flicker of images, one after another. They all end at the same spot – Castiel gazing into the sky, sitting on a bench with dirty snow on the ground: "I'm asking you, Father, one last time. Am I doing the right thing? Am I on the right path? You have to tell me, you have to give me a sign. Give me a sign. Because if you don't, I'm gonna do whatever I must."

Silence.

And the rapid images restart: Dean in the garden raking leaves, Crowley and Castiel talking in Hell next to a never ending queue, Castiel lying to the Winchesters again and again, his meetings with Crowley: "Well I've got news for you kitten. A whore is a whore is a whore."

Castiel wants to kill him right there, but he doesn't and he really does feel like a whore.

A ring of fire, Crowley (the new devil), Castiel confronting Dean: "If I'm asking you not to do something, you gotta trust me."

Castiel looks at him for a moment and he wants to say "you're right, forgive me." He wants to say he'll kill Crowley, he'll trust them. All that leaves his mouth is: "Or what?"

And then he's sitting on the bench again.

* * *

><p>Dean has fallen asleep on the motel bed and the angels are surrounding the bed protectively, unmoving like statues. When he awakes they will transport him to Castiel, but he'll have to take it from there. It's a warehouse building with angel protection all over it.<p>

Dean moves fitfully in his sleep – a nightmare.

The angels don't understand what causes Dean pain so they simply stand. At least he is protected from all physical danger.

Dean dreams that he's in Hell again, except this time he's torturing Cas, Sam, Bobby and then Cas again. Alastair keeps an affectionate arm around Dean's shoulder as if he's a favourite son.

* * *

><p>Crowley's been feeling uncertain of himself for a while – ever since he started serving Castiel. But this is restoring his belief in himself. This is priceless.<p>

Castiel has wings and is standing by a lake, stroking Dean's bones as his soul leaves what is left of his body. Crowley can see that this is just a dream (sad that Castiel hasn't actually killed Dean) unlike the former memories.

Castiel's wings are beautiful, thinks Crowley. He would really have loved to have plucked every feather one at a time and then cut both wings off piece by piece. It's almost a shame that Castiel doesn't have them anymore.

They caress Castiel's wet cheeks and Castiel says: "it's a human thing. You wouldn't understand."

As much as Crowley really wants to continue his exploration of Castiel's darkest fears, he really feels it's time to return and re – reopen his deal. Castiel really is being more of a challenge than expected. Still, Crowley enjoys a challenge. Crowley knows the dreams aren't quite enough to to secure a "yes." He's already got a last idea once Castiel wakes up.

Before he can snap his fingers and wake Castiel up, the scene changes a last time.

Castiel is in a large warehouse, tied to a chair and Crowley is talking to him. Castiel's eyes have yet again been cut from their sockets and Crowley is making an offer: "Cas. Life isn't worth it, you know it and so do I. So come on darling, it's really just a simple yes."

Castiel doesn't move and blood is trickling down his cheeks like red tears.

Crowley leans towards Castiel. "Not even a yes. Just a nod."

Mutely Castiel nods and Crowley leans in even closer, roughly kissing Castiel, biting down on his lip hard and drawing blood, while Castiel groans in pain.

Crowley watches the scene with fascination. Strange that his fantasy is Castiel's nightmare. He wonders what Castiel's blood and lips tastes like.

Oh well, time to go, hopefully it will become reality soon enough. He snaps his fingers.

Castiel wakes up and for a second he really thinks he made the deal. Everything feels just like in the dream, but without Crowley sealing the deal.

He can't see and the physical agony returns in a rush that leaves him dizzy, but at least the dreams are over until he falls asleep again.

Crowley stands watching him, intrigued for the moment with Castiel's nightmares. He walks to the chair and leans in close to his ear (the whispering really gives a creepy effect, thinks Crowley): "You see kitten, I'm in your dreams. You can't escape."

The use of almost the same words that Castiel heard Crowley say to him while in his head leaves a sick taste in his mouth. There's a red tracks on each of his cheeks. Like bloody tears.

* * *

><p>Sam and Bobby look at the pie.<p>

"It _is _for Dean," mutters Sam, his annoying conscience getting in the way of eating a pie.

"Just eat it idjit," grumbles Bobby and shoves Sam. The kid really does overdo the guilt trip sometimes.

"We could… We could always make another one," Sam considers.

Bobby nods, exasperated and drinks his beer.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Tada. I hope I didn't disappoint, this chapter was as speed written as I dared without being sloppy^^ TBC...<em>**


	8. A little too late, is much too late

**_A/N: Finally, after several weeks in which I've been starved for writing (apart from pencil and paper) I can post my next chapter. Don't hate me for my lack of updating, but rather blame the world that just won't provide a handy laptop in the middle of nowhere._**

**_Enjoy_**

**_A/N 2: The chapter name is a German proverb_**

* * *

><p><strong>A little too late, is much too late<strong>

* * *

><p>Castiel is dosed on morphine again. It makes him sleepy, but he fights against sleep with every weak fibre of his human body. Crowley snaps his fingers in front of Castiel's face and, although Castiel can't see, he flinches and jerks awake.<p>

"Castiel. Listen. I'll admit that hurting you has been something I've wanted to do for quite some time. But, on the other hand, I'm not a brainless monster. I like to think that I'm civilized, cultured… Still just a businessman. I'm selling you a good deal here, mate. Now, no need to talk, but I'll be generous here. I'm going to give you a free taste, just so you can see the opportunity you're missing out on. It'll only take a second, honest to God… or whatever. Care for a quick stroll down the highway to Hell? I'll pull you out after… shall we say, three minutes. Three minutes in Hell and then I'll let you decide."

Castiel's head lolls forward slightly as he starts succumbing to the drug. Crowley puts a finger under Castiel's chin and lifts his head so they're staring at each other. The eyes that Crowley has borrowed from a moderately successful businessman from New York search Castiel's empty sockets for an answer.

"Cas? Blink if you understand. Oh, wait, you can't. Nod."

Castiel nods slowly, his head heavy.

"Is that a yes, dearie?"

Castiel nods again.

* * *

><p>Dean is awake the moment the hand lightly touches his shoulder. His first instinct is to grab his gun and shoot whatever is attacking him in the face, but then his mind reasserts itself and he remembers the angels. He groans. Somehow – no matter how good or helpful – those winged bastards keep getting on his nerves.<p>

"Dean Winchester. You have rested for three hours. Your mind and body is strengthened enough for your task. Are you ready to go?"

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes and nods, although he doesn't feel particularly recuperated after three hours.

"We will wait for you outside," says Zuriel. "Happy hunting."

The other three smile slightly, the movement required for such an act more a sort of automatic response from their human vessels than the angels learning human emotions. Hunting demons is something they understand and enjoy.

...

... Now the five of them are standing on a gravel road. The air is humid and rain drips off the twig of a huge, leafless tree that stands ominously as the only other living thing in this barren countryside. Dean wishes the place would feel more alive and hopes that it is not a reflection of Cas' current condition. He hasn't considered the fact that Cas might already be dead and has – since his search began – been shoving that thought as far back as possible in his already overloaded mind. Now that he's so close to finding him he fears that he's too late.

Before them looms a derelict factory building that makes the angels seem small. It is completely silent, dead.

"This is where you continue alone," says Zuriel.

"We'll take care of any stragglers," adds Karael.

"With the utmost pleasure," finishes Briathos.

Zophiel merely nods in what Dean takes to be encouragement. He takes a step forwards, then stops.

"Just a question. Where are we?"

"An old nuclear power plant in Ukraine. There are high amounts of radiation in this place, but we have saved you from the worst of the emission," Zuriel tells him.

"Comforting," mumbles Dean and wonders why he was stupid enough to ask.

His right hand grasps Ruby's knife (strange that he and Sam still call it that) and he wishes he had the colt with him. Still. Ready as ever, he supposes. He wishes he at least knew how many demons were hiding in this God forsaken place – has God really forsaken it, he hopes not. He could use some divine help at the moment.

"You hear that?" half-shouts Dean. "Help. Help Cas. He's said friggin sorry."

...

A door has been smashed and what is left hangs splintered on rusty, metal hinges. Dean figures that this may be where the demons entered. If he squints he can just about see the angel proofing that is all over the walls and ground outside the vast structure. The room on the other side is dark and Dean waits just outside until his eyes have become accustomed to the gloom.

Once he is able to see the interior of the building he takes a deep breath and enters. His hand, slightly sticky with sweat, grasps the knife tighter.

He steps into a long, empty corridor. The years have chewed through the walls, revealing cables and what is left of thousands of dead bugs. Leaves, rubbish and pieces of wood lie all over the floor. The air grows colder from the moment Dean crosses the threshold and he can see his breath form brief clouds before dispersing into the air. Everything is silent apart from his own, ragged breathing, his steady heartbeat and the sound of his feet walking towards the opening at the other end of the corridor.

The light fades the closer Dean gets to the next room. He walks into it and he still can't hear or see anything. Except… he's in a machinery room, so many hiding places behind corroded metal engines and in dark corners. He stops and waits until he is certain that his night vision has kicked in and then continues, closer towards an unknown apparatus.

… And something makes a noise. It's a tiny, metallic clang that would usually be dismissed as the equivalent of an age of wood creaking inside a dilapidated mansion. But Dean's years of hunting set him on edge and now he can hear light footsteps coming from the left.

They suddenly stop. Dean ducks down and almost stops breathing in his strain to listen.

Somebody crashes into him, but Dean, prepared, rolls back, dragging the person towards him before kicking out. He hears a satisfying gasp for air as his right foot snaps into a rib, sufficiently hard to break it. The person lies on the floor, unmoving, and Dean can hear sobs from the pain he's induced.

He kneels down beside the person, grasps the knife tightly and prepares to stab his assailant. A young girl, about seventeen. He stops. She just stares at him, eyes wide and definitely human. Demons don't express silent terror – hate, pleasure, fear, pain, but not that haunted look deeply hidden behind the pupils of the eye that says "please kill me, but stop hurting me, please, please."

Dean takes a step back, panting in the aftermath of the fight. "You're… Human?"

She keeps staring.

"Do you understand English?"

Stare.

"Jesus Christ," mutters Dean in exasperation and suddenly he gets a reaction. Her eyes widen in shock and she shakes her head.

"What?" asks Dean.

"Don't swear," mutters the girl and Dean hears that she's American. She gasps and holds a hand towards her rib. Dean stoops down and grips the hand, comfortingly.

"I can get you out of here," he tells her. "But you have to tell me what happened."

"S – smoke," stutters the girl. "Black. Demons."

Her eyes shut in pain. A trickle of blood runs from the corner of her mouth. Dean frowns. He didn't do that, he's sure. He inspects her broken rib, but it hasn't punctured a lung.

She stops gasping and Dean checks her pulse. It's stopped.

He stands up, his face passive, his mind racing.

Possessing teenagers. He is going to kill these demons.

...

... Dean has been searching for an hour. The sun is now high in the sky and it's surprisingly warm. The problem is that this place is massive and most rooms are so shadowy that he can't immediately dismiss them as empty. He's been wondering how the girl escaped the demons. The logical part of his mind tries to tell him that Cas must be dead and the demons long gone, leaving their vessels to die alone in the darkness of the power plant. But Dean seldom listens to logic and is sure that Cas is here somewhere, preferably unharmed.

Dean hopes that the angels will retrieve the remaining vessels. I_f any have survived, _muses Dean. He has been feeling strangely detached ever since that girl died. It's as though his emotions won't surface while he is hunting. He isn't going to grieve over the death of a strange girl. Currently he can pretend that she isn't real, just another faceless victim, not somebody he might have saved, brought home. Besides, allowing to percieve that sensation of sorrow for an unknown would open the floodgates to all kinds of feelings. Feelings that would currently be more of a hindrance than a help.

He can become emotional when he finds Cas.

And he _will _find Cas.

He steps through yet another doorway and stands outside, surrounded by buildings. He's been out here before and checked several of the smaller ones, but this time he heads for what looks like a warehouse. Possibly it's been used mostly for storage.

Dean's senses are on high alert. Apart from the teenager he hasn't seen anything living or dead. He's sure that he's closing in on Castiel's kidnappers.

There's a small side door that he heads for. As he gets closer he notices that the lock is broken and the door slightly ajar. He stands outside and gently taps the door so that it swings inwards. It creaks, but Dean is pretty sure that it wasn't loud enough for anybody inside to hear. If somebody does, it could always be the wind (Dean can't feel even a light breeze, but if there's anyone inside they won't know that).

He takes a step inside and notices movement out of the corner of his eye. The demon keeping watch on the other side of the door moves silently behind him, preparing to break his neck. It starts to die before it notices the knife sticking into its gut. Dean turns around and watches, regretting the death of its vessel – a man in his late twenties dressed in a black business suit. For just a second before the demon dies, his eyes flash human and he sinks to the dirty floor.

As Dean kneels to retrieve the knife, another demon attacks him from behind. It's abandoned the stealth move its companion tried and simply pummels into him, knocking the knife from Dean's hand. It grabs his throat and tightens, but Dean manages to shove his knee into its stomach, winding it and allowing him a moment to retrieve the knife. He just manages to get a grip on it before it attacks him again, but this time Dean thrusts the knife through its throat and it falls, dead. He removes his weapon, briefly wondering why there are no more demons protecting the place. Possibly they thought themselves invulnerable to harm with their angel protection. He's still cautious. He's alone in enemy territory and he's not simply going to let his guard down because he's stopped two demons and a frightened, half – dead teenage girl.

"**Hey**," he shouts to no one in particular. "Cas!"

His voice echoes into the warehouse and then everything becomes eerily quiet. Dean wishes someone would attack him again, because something feels so wrong and a good old demon attack would help to make the situation seem more normal.

Dean moves towards the only shapes he can make out.

In the middle of the room is a metal chair.

A lamp with its bright light pointed towards the chair.

A wheely table with an assortment of sharp devices on it.

A white cloth thrown carelessly to the floor

That's it.

Except that's not it.

There's something red. Blood.

Something blue. Two of them. Round. Bloody.

That's it.

No Cas.

Just that, the two demons that stood guard in case someone should come looking and possibly several discarded vessels.

Dean doesn't get nauseous often. He actually wants to cry now. So much for keeping emotions in check while hunting. He settles for kicking the chair, hard. He feels a satisfying, thumping pain shoot up his foot.

"Honestly, you need some anger management classes, because I'm sensing deep anger within you, Skywalker."

Dean turns around and stabs the owner of the voice in the chest before he even sees who spoke. The person frowns.

Dean is speechless. About two dozen sentences crowd towards the front of his mouth, but he settles for a simple gaping goldfish impression.

"Yes, yes, I'm dead, have been for a while. You tell him that. The buggering idiot insists we're alive. " The person points behind Dean and Dean sees the companion.

He manages to ask one of the weirder sentences that has been queuing to be said: "So… How's it going?"

The person shrugs. "Can't complain, though I wish I didn't have to be here, with you. And _him_."

The companion frowns and looks hurt. "Hey, _I _didn't ask for you to come chuckles. You're so grouchy."

Dean's expression returns to the safety of dumb goldfish.

The two newcomers seem equally amused at his surprise.

_Friggin' angels__, _thinks Dean.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Tada... As I wrote before: FINALLY I got to transfer this from paper to computer and post it. Hope this was worth the wait^^<em>**


	9. The boys are back in town

**_A/N: Ah, just my luck that I'm experiencing all sorts of writers block... Anywho, I figured "since I'm away for six days I may as well post" and the chapter would be waaay too long if I'd decided to post all 7 pages I've written. So the next chapter will be posted on my return and you can enjoy this in the meantime (yes, long explanation, I know)_**

* * *

><p><strong>The boys are back in town...<strong>

* * *

><p>Gabriel rather dislikes the eldest Winchester. He has many good reasons for doing so, not least that his "can't or won't" superior manner had got Gabriel killed in the first place. And not just killed by anybody, but slaughtered by his own brother. Despite Dean's black and white perspective on right and wrong he had successfully pitted brother against brother. But as long as perfectly precious Sammy was okay the world could technically go to Hell, right?<p>

Actually, the thing that _really _annoys Gabriel is that he doesn't himself believe all those accusations against Dean Winchester. Stupid, faultless Winchesters. And they whine too much. _All the time. _Hello, they'd just beaten the Apocalypse, Sam was back from the pit and Castiel was on their side. And they have to go and complain about a little Demon Deal. If Gabriel had been there, then things wouldn't have gotten so out of hand, he's sure of it. All he'd have done was slap some sense into his younger brother - using one of his many techniques acquired while in the trickster business - and then go and beat Raphael with a suitably sized bat. Possibly a bat roughly the same make and size as an archangels blade.

Of course, he was dead at the time – no possibility of helping out (not that he _ever_ wanted to help the Winchesters. He still thoroughly dislikes them). So Castiel went from delinquent, rebel teen to permanently high grown up (Gabriel feels that these are rather suitable metaphors for Castiel's soul abuse). The Winchesters naturally fought back and that…

… Leads to this particular scene, where he's had to tag along with _that _angel. Screw his thoughts on having to work with Dean again, _that _angel is worse, by miles, more miles than any whimpering excuse of a human mind could ever conceive of. Gabriel rather dislikes _that _angel – way more than anyWinchester.

One thing they can both agree on though, is the comedic value of Dean Winchesters priceless facial expression on meeting the both of them in an angel proofed nuclear power plant.

Gabriel wants to just stand there and enjoy hours of "fish gasping for air" impressions, but, sadly, his companion has the patience of a three year old and waves a hand in front of Dean's face.

"Mr. Winchester," he drawls with that unpleasantly British twang in his accent (well, Gabriel hates it), "as amusing as your imitations are I really don't have time for your limited human capabilities of perceiving the obvious truth. Can we just commence with your obvious twenty questions?"

Dean nods slowly: "Balthazar?"

Balthazar nods, his face emitting boredom. "That was your first question. You have nineteen left," he says, his voice dripping with its usual snobby sarcasm (well, Gabriel thinks so).

"Y – you're… not dead."

"Was that a fact or a question?" asks Balthazar, oozing with superiority and more malicious delight in Dean's awkwardness than he'd let on. Gabriel is quite sure that Balthazar holds more of a grudge against the Winchesters than he himself does. It's those Brits and their petty, vindictiveness (Well, at least Gabriel isn't petty).

Dean suddenly returns to reality and his hunter senses make him wary. Sure, the knife still sticking through Balthazar's shirt hasn't killed him, but it is obviously a trick. Angels couldn't possibly get in here. He doesn't answer, but takes a casual step back. The further the distance between himself and these impostors, the bigger the chance of an escape.

"This shirt… was expensive," says Balthazar without any real emotion. He snaps his fingers and the shirt is fixed, the knife lying on that table beside the two bloodied reminders of what Dean is searching for. Dean doesn't move. His face is cautiously passive.

"Whiner," mumbles Gabriel to nobody in particular, knowing that he doesn't need to raise his voice for it to be heard by an angel. Balthazar's annoying response is to raise an eyebrow and gaze critically up and down Gabriel's own particular choice of wardrobe.

"What?" Gabriel holds his arms out so his present lousy company can see – he isn't wearing anything designer. It doesn't matter anyway; he could snap his fingers and wear anything he liked. Sometimes Balthazar takes materialistic goods too seriously. Gabriel prefers remembering that he is above that, mostly by toying with anyone he doesn't like. Except he can't do anything to Balthazar and that might be the most annoying thing in this whole situation.

"Mr. Winchester, your nineteen questions are still unsaid," points out Balthazar.

Dean considers for a moment whether he ought to run, but angels or not, he is sure that these two would easily be able to catch up with him.

"You're... angels?"

Balthazar scoffs. "Are you daring to presume that we're some lowly demonic creature that has taken these forms in order to lull you into a sense of false security?"

The thick silence that follows speaks for itself.

"It's not like you've ever felt secure around us," points out Gabriel.

Dean sort of shrugs, surprised that what Gabriel says not only makes sense, but is actually also helpful.

"Can you prove it?"

Balthazar studies his fingernails. "Yes. But we won't."

"Why?" growls Dean, wary again.

"Three good reasons. We don't have the time for petty angel displays, it seems a pointless agenda to try and convince your thick brain of anything and... I _really _can't be bothered."

Gabriel rolls his eyes. Well done for trying to make Dean trust them.

Dean feels that at least these are the personalities he remembers for the two angels. He decides not to argue with Balthazar's logic.

"Do you know who kidnapped Cas?"

"Yes."

A long silence. Gabriel knows that their orders mean that Balthazar is in charge, but he's just so... childish. Enjoying the situation too much, being way too facetious. Gabriel wants to give a proper answer to Dean's question, but Balthazar wants to go through the twenty questions as fast as possible. Therefore they wait.

"Who?" grumbles Dean, knowing that he won't be getting answers by arguing with Balthazar.

"Crowley."

"He's alive?" blurts out Dean, before he realizes that it's a waste of a question.

The answer is another raise of the eyebrows.

"Where are the demons?" asks Dean.

"WithCrowley."

"Where can I find him?"

"With Cas."

Dean swallows. IfCrowleyhas Cas then he wants him for something. That something can never be good. He remembers how easilyCrowleyseduced Cas the first time round. Leading to that year of Hell, to Sam's recent promise to kill Cas.

"Wh - what does he want with him?"

Balthazar shakes his head. "We don't actually know. That's why we're deigning to work with you, Mr. Winchester. You have a... fresher eye on things often. A little like a dog that won't let go."

Dean ignores the insult.

"What can I do?" he asks.

"Go places we can't" answers Balthazar cryptically.

"What?"

"We'll get to that later, Mr. Winchester." Gabriel starts tapping his foot, bored by now at his lack of involvement. A glance from Balthazar stops him.

"Why are you here?"

"To help you, as I think I mentioned."

"I mean, on earth, alive," tries Dean, thinking that Balthazar probably knows what he means, but wants to annoy him.

"Again, to help you."

"What, you're like... the elite?"

"Yes. I like that," says Balthazar, amused.

"Who brought you back?"

"God."

"Shoulda realized," mumbled Dean.

"Yes, you should."

"Why do you wanna help me?"

"To help Cas, of course. We two feel... shall we say "most loyal" towards our younger brother," answers Balthazar, his voice for once sincere."

"You wanna help save Cas?"

"Indeed, shocking though it may sound."

"What... happened since you died?"

"Oh, that's such a long story... do we have to answer?"

"Yeah," grins Dean, but then: "Wait. First, where's Cas?"

"In Hell."

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, you'd probably guessed who it'd be I brought back, but there was a legit reason for it, promise. I wouldn't bring someone back just because I adored them on the show... honest^^<strong>


	10. Short tales

**A/N: Ah, just re-watched the promo for season 7 and it seems that so far this story could be pretty close to the truth. But I'm going to hurry up and see if I can't finish it before the season actually starts. If they decide to kill Castiel in the first episode or something that would defeat the whole point of this story.**

**Okay, so I hated my writing of G and B - so I've changed it a little. I don't honestly know if it's enough, but a little less serious and a little more insulting + way more innuendos. Let me know if I change something again, because those two won't stop annoying me with their complicated personalities.**

**A/N 2: Just mentioning that the pace is a little slower again, but'll pick up in the next chapter^^**

**A/N 3: Btw, AWOL means: Absent without official leave. In case someone is wondering later on**

* * *

><p><strong>Short tales<strong>

* * *

><p>Sam runs his hand through his hair. He isn't worried, not really. His brother is a big boy and so what if there haven't been any status updates for the past day? It isn't unusual for long breaks of communication, it's just… this isn't any job, this is Castiel, ex-soul junkie with too many people gunning for him to make Sam feel comfortable. Searching for Castiel is more than likely to neon- light a sign over Dean's head saying "Winchester, come kill me." And freaks would love to help themselves to a hunter, especially this one.<p>

On the other hand, Sam has always known that Dean has that proud streak of big brotherliness that refuses to allow Sam to worry until Dean is a second from dying again.

He pushes back his hair again and paces the living room in Bobby's house, so familiarly cluttered with a thousand books he will never even wipe the dust of the covers from. He may be a geek, but Bobby is far more knowledgeable than he'll probably ever be. He doubts he and Dean will survive until they're Bobby's age anyhow. The next time they die there'll be know one to bring them back for some obscure purpose first revealed in the last chapter. The thought is oddly comforting.

He sits down on the sofa and suddenly decides to pick up one of the books and thumb through it. He won't call Dean, he decides.

* * *

><p>Dean is in a seedy motel room, leaning against one of the walls, wishing he had a drink. He hasn't the faintest clue as to what part of the world he's been transported to, but currently doesn't care about himself. <em>Hell. He's in Hell. I'm too late.<em>

The shock has made him adopt an inert, unemotional demeanour that threatens to explode. He is going to shoot the next person that addresses him, angel or not.

Zuriel casts a curious glance in his direction. Dean wonders whether the angel even knows what the word "curious" actually means or if it's merely the vessel that portraying some inner, unknown emotion from the angel. Briathos and Karael stand beside Zuriel, unblinking, awaiting orders. Zophiel is in deep conversation with Balthazar and Gabriel. He is the only one who originally seemed unsurprised at seeing the two. Dean's mind is so exhausted that he can't be bothered to know why. Zophiel nods one last time, turns towards Dean and hesitantly holds his hand out.

"Good luck, Mr. Winchester. I pray you succeed."

He shakes Dean's hand with a startlingly human firmness and inclines his head towards the other three. Then they're gone.

Dean walks towards the bed and sits down, ready to yet again await whatever orders the angels have for him now that… _now that Castiel is in Hell. I'm too late. _

Luckily his mind has a way to adapt to loss. To save himself he'll turn to going to die now, as he should have done years ago.

Gabriel suddenly holds out a bottle towards him. Sadly, it's just ordinary beer, not exactly a forgetfulness potion.

Balthazar looks awkwardly from Dean towards Gabriel, who nods decisively, grinning slightly, and Balthazar sighs, resigned. "We have deliberated and we'll tell you how we arrived at your particular dead end in the factory. Much against my will, for I feel it's a bloody waste of time when concerning your mission – "

"What _mission?" _asks Dean, his voice hoarse. He can feel an urge to either scream or cry and doesn't particularly want to pour his heart out in front of two of the biggest dicks he's ever had the misfortune to receive help from, so he opens the beer and takes a long draught, downing the whole bottle. Gabriel immediately hands him another bottle and the first one disappears. Dean opens the second beer, but drinks it slower, waiting for an answer.

"The mission to save Castiel, of course," Balthazar declares, as though it's obvious and Dean is being deliberately stupid.

Shock wave number two breaks through Dean's numbness and smashes through the mental block of ice that has built its usual defence system in his mind.

"S – " the word chokes in his throat and he regrets having drunk the beer so fast. He swallos and tries again: "Save?"

"He may be in Hell, but he is not completely unreachable. For you, that is. But we'll get back to that, for now just accept my word. He is salvageable, both now and… later."

"Accept you word?"

"Please don't insult me, I'm still an angel. I can twist and bend the truth, but this… is unadulterated honesty, for once in my life."

Gabriel nods, shoving Dean's third beer into his hand. Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna get you that drunk," says Gabriel, leering.

Dean shrugs, deciding not to turn down free beer.

"Later?" he asks.

"Oh please," scoffs Gabriel. "You haven't been wondering whether his soul is tainted, whether he wasn't bound for Hell anyway? Well, good news for the love struckWinchester, he's not. It's a brand new soul. He never had one before, we don't have souls. We have Grace."

His voice carries a certain smugness that Dean recognizes from the old days, when they'd first met – as enemies, strangely enough. Good times. Simpler, certainly. But without Castiel – and the constant innuendo by his older brothers.

"Anyway, this story is going to be as short as possible, you won't ask questions and if I skip most of it I hope you won't sue," states Balthazar bluntly.

"You died," says Dean.

Gabriel nods. "Yeah, but that's pretty unimportant in the end. I mean, I didn't even meet this guy until I was resurrected. And he was killed a year after me, give or take."

"Yes. We were dead. But then we sort of weren't," clarifies Balthazar brilliantly.

"And you don't remember anything about being dead?" asks Dean.

"No questions, I think I mentioned. And if we do remember, it's private whatever may or may not have happened after the death of an angel. We don't go where the majority of human souls end up, that poor reproduction of a human's perspective of paradise."

"That's not heaven?" Surprise.

"Oh, please do shut up," snarls Balthazar and Dean does, not wanting to miss whatever small details he will be told.

"Well, resurrection is a strong word," continues Gabriel as though there have been no interruptions, enjoying his own (or the vessels) voice for the moment. "We were re – created,"

"By God?" Dean can't help asking.

"No. God oversees, guides, leads. The angel in question is called Radueriel. Radueriel is in control of the archives, futures, pasts of a million, billion humans and angels. It's all in our little library in heaven," says Gabriel. "And Radueriel sees it all."

"Radueriel is one of the "upper class." Works closely with Sophia, Yehudia and Azrael who're the advisers. Wisdom, benevolence and death."

"Oh, so… they know everything?"

"Mr. Winchester, drink your beer and shut up," Balthazar says through gritted teeth.

Dean obliges.

"Our mission instructions were to find you," continues Gabriel. "And find Castiel before it was too late."

"I thought heaven hated Cas," mutters Dean.

"Yeah," shrugs Gabriel. "Most up there do, but not the ones who make the decisions," says Gabriel. "Castiel is to be saved."

"Why?"

"To save you, though _seriously, _God only knows why."

Dean's phone rings.

* * *

><p>Bobby shoved the phone in his hand just as he reached page 40, to do with divine numerology. The book was fascinating and strangely religious for Bobby, but he promptly forgot all about it as Bobby slammed it shut and pried it from his unresisting hands, putting it delicately on the table, beside his favourite Jack.<p>

"Call, ya idjit." Simple, to the point. Helpful.

"Yeah?" The voice on the other end sounds strange. Sam can't place whether his brother is sad, hopeful, impatient, curious – perhaps a weird mix? What the Hell has happened since they parted?

"Uh, just, you know checking," says Sam, nonchalantly. "How're things?"

"Been better, been worse. I'm good. You and Bobby?"

"Yeah, we've been hunting."

"Tell me about it."

"Wasn't anything important," mutters Sam.

"I wanna hear."

His brother's voice is soothing, somehow. At least he isn't dead yet. Sam can tell he's trying to make up for not calling. _Jesus, even now he's watching out for me, when it was meant to be the other way round. _But he wants to tell Dean.

"I'll make it short," he says. He knows that he's keeping Dean from his search.

"Yeah, that'd be best."

* * *

><p>"We arrived inRedLakeFallsearlier this morning, because some lunatic in an asylum claimed to have witnessed a creature devouring her boyfriend. Except, when we went to check her out she didn't have the usual MO for insanity, just grief. So we decided to check it out. Turns outRedLakeFallshas had high demon signs, power not working, nature freaking out and – get this – weird abortions and desecrated graves. Seems that the unborn were disappearing."<p>

"Well, demons do like baby's blood," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah, only these ones were leaving their resting places on their own. We checked out the graves. They were broken out of from the inside. So, naturally we thought zombies, except someone would have noticed zombie babies crawling around town and what did they have to do with the demons?

So we did some digging and found: Tikbalang."

"That sounds as made up as Rugaroo."

"They're friggin hard to kill though. Like a mix between a horse and humans. So we had to take out the demons – stop them from possessing poor bastards and getting women pregnant and then make the horse guys docile and order them to kill themselves."

"Yeah, but why do this in the first place? Seems pointless."

"We got one of them, riding one of the inhabitants. Luckily it was a weak, snivelling coward. Turns out that demons are celebrating all over the place, being allowed free pass out of Hell, because Cas has gone AWOL. It's gonna get chaotic pretty soon."

"You're telling me," mutters Dean.

"How's the search?"

"It's... it's good, I suppose. I'm closing in."

"Hey." says Sam.

"Yeah?"

A pause as though Sam is considering what to say, then: "Good luck."

He hangs up.

* * *

><p>Dean sighs, grateful that his younger brother is fine. It's one of his constant worries that has become so permanently etched into his being that he hardly notices it until the burden is lifted.<p>

Balthazar is drinking a glass of something expensive that has appeared suddenly and Gabriel is munching on some unnameable candy. He casts a glance towards Dean.

"You done with the verbal family reunion, chuckles?" he asks and Dean actually smiles.

"Weirdly enough, I've missed your really bad insults, Gabriel."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "You shoulda said hi to your brother from us," he mutters.

"Oh yeah: "By the way, Sam, Balthazar and Gabriel just returned from the dead, I'll tell you all about it later." You want me to mentionCrowleywhile I'm at it?"

"Fascinating as your conversation is," Balthazar interrupts. "I believe the formalities can now cease. It is time to inform you of your particular part in this mission."

"Why don't you just go to Hell and get him yourselves?"

"Well, obviously we can't, or else I wouldn't be forced to side with you again."

"You did it with me. Cas did, anyway."

"Dean, Dean, Dean," says Balthazar, exasperated: "We laid siege to Hell to bring you to earth. The fact that Castiel _happened_ to be the angel to grip you was purely coincidental."

"I thought angels don't believe in coincidences."

"The truth is, that any angel with Castiel's naivetywould have been ensnared by your particular brand of black and white stupidity and could have become loyal enough to assist in defeating Lucifer. Everything that followed – from Crowley to your battle in heaven – it could easily have been anyone else. It _is_ coincidence, the way the two of you consistently seem to be drawn together," Balthazar explains, as though Dean is a child that doesn't understand.

"You're like two weirdly epic lovers, dirty trenchcoat and dirty leather jacket," Balthazar smirks, finishing the last of his glass, then taking another sip as it refills itself.

"Weird though, how it wasn't any other angel. But I'm not arguing. I've been trying to screw Destiny for a long time now."

"You seem to be formulating an argument based on something you don't believe in," Balthazar quarrels.

"Whatever."

"Nice woman, Destiny," says Gabriel to no one in particular. The silence that follows is thick enough to try out for a second employment as glue.

Gabriel, himself breaks it: "There is a piece of information missing, before we can be sure that our brilliantly constructed plan in which you do all the work can even function, sort of. You need to tell us about heaven."

"_What?"_

The word is somehow painful to utter, as though everything from the previous year has just echoed through his body and exited via his vocal chords. A year he'd rather forget – especially heaven, if that is even the appropriate name for the Hell he met up there. No. He isn't going tell. It's between himself and Cas, if Cas can even remember now that he's lost everything that made him an angel. Although, technically he lost that a year ago – sacrificed a week or so ago. A week? He isn't actually sure whether that is true, time is somehow eluding him. He doesn't remember how long he was in heaven, hasn't even bothered to ask Sam.

Dean shakes his head. He's babbling to himself. He's not even sure what to tell, even if he wanted to. He feels like the information is being erased from his mind, trauma? More likely the angels deem it forbidden information.

Suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder and he is yanked back to that motel.

"Don't be a bloody wanker, just stop fighting forgetfulness and tell us. It'll help."

Balthazar has never sounded so sincere.

Gabriel hands him another beer, still chewing on his never-ending candy.

Dean smirks, wryly.

"I'll make it short, shall I."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Ah, hope everything isn't suddenly weirdly confusing. I promise an abundance of Castiel in the next chapter^^<em>**


	11. Hotter than Hell

**_A/N1: Okay, so I finally pulled myself together and managed to write again, yipee^^_**

**_A/N2: Just to mention, I absolutely adored the premiere, although it means a small change in writing this story (Oh, well. It was guess to post-season 7 after all)  
><em>**

**_And thank you to Florence and the Machine for letting me steal some of their lyrics^^_**

* * *

><p><em><strong>THE ROAD SO FAR...<strong>_

Castiel managed to send the spirits back to purgatory, sacrificing his Grace and turning human. While sleeping in a Dingy motel, he and Dean shared a dream that will have some importance in later events. He has been captured by Crowley, who's intent on ruining his human soul and has successfully dragged him to Hell for three minutes, earth time (that's a lot longer in Hell).

Dean has decided to find Castiel, receiving help from several angels who assisted him during season 7. While searching an abandoned nuclear plant in Ukraine, he bumps into a couple of old angels (whom he isn't sure how glad he is to see, but still, annoying help is better than no help). They tell him that Crowley is alive and that Castiel is in Hell, but have yet to divulge their ingenious plan to save him.

Sam has been busy baking pies, worrying about his brother and hunting relative evil, but hasn't starred a major part (sorry about that). He has also received the number of an OC who is terribly unimportant for the overall plot, still, Sam deserved that number.

**_NOW..._**

* * *

><p><strong>Hotter than Hell…<strong>

* * *

><p>There's a drumming noise inside his head. He wishes desperately for… something. He can't remember what he wants, the drums are too loud. Where is he?<p>

Oh, yes, that's right.

Hell.

* * *

><p>Crowley glances absentmindedly at his perfectly manicured nails, his face carefully passive as he faces all his evil minions.<p>

Being the leader of a troop like this, one is usually expected to show tolerance, strength and a general interest in the well-being of Hell's inhabitants.

Unfortunately (for demons, at least), megalomania, indifference to the souls of others, evilness and a smooth accent will do the trick to becoming the head honcho around this place.

Demons sometimes wonder whether Hell's system is actually a constructive work environment – of course, striking and demonstrating isn't a realistic option when Hell is generally a dictatorship run by some nasty demon or other. And currently, Crowley is the worst of the lot.

Democracy just doesn't offer the same, devastating work results.

"Why is everything around this place a bloody mess?"

Crowley is waiting patiently (for the next ten seconds) for an answer on who is responsible. The actual crime was committed during his _short _absence, while negotiating terms for the deal of a lifetime. Crowley wants to be known as the King who ensnared a Fallen Angel and he only has two minutes and fifty-one seconds left to hope for a signature.

And now this.

Crowley isn't prone to crying and he certainly isn't starting now, but he knows that several demons will be feeling the wrong end of a fiery pitchfork – or maybe something more medieval? A bloody axe? He'll certainly be enjoying their tears when he's through with them.

Several hundred demons grow increasingly interested in the floor and take on the demeanour of naughty school children being reprimanded by a vice principal. A vice principal with a tendency to punish misbehaviour by using burning objects.

"Well?"

No one steps forward.

"Here's the thing, people: I demand to know what the Hell provoked the deficiency in management while I was out. And when I demand something from you, you miserable and insufficiently competent maggots, you deliver me **whoever is responsible," **he concludes with a yell that causes several demons to flinch, but Crowley still receives no answer. He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

Surely the demons aren't sticking out their necks to protect each other. No, that's not it.

"If anyone has any information it can be left at my office. No need to tell anyone else you're a dirty, snitching whore," he finishes, smirking. He turns on his heel and disappears, leaving a buzz of relieved and suspicious demons. Who will fold and go running to the boss first?

The souls residing in Hell who_ aren't_ demons usually consist of people who have committed sins of various degrees of awfulness (with the exception of a few – John and Dean Winchester being obvious examples). These souls are punished – twisted and torn until they are a demonic presence rather than the remains of humanity's filth. Then they become employees, slaves or Satanists depending on which demon you ask. Crowley knows that the three groups are usually fighting different internal disputes, deal with the torture of souls in different ways and are always ready to stab you in the back for different reasons. There isn't a single decent demon residing in Hell. The only reason for nobody stepping forward to inform their King on who it was that managed to lose a whole batch of fresh souls is because even Crowley won't be able to punish a demon as much as any of those groups. Demons might have to watch their backs constantly, but they don't like obvious traitors in their ranks.

Crowley would have been experiencing a splitting headache at having to locate a whole week's worth of misplaced souls… except there is one thing that he has been looking forward to.

He glances at his watch.

Two minutes and forty-nine seconds remaining.

* * *

><p>Three minutes. In Hell. Castiel blames the groggy, drugged state he was in when he agreed. The fact that he had not considered the difference of time in Hell. Now, his head is cleared and he realizes that there are going to be days – maybe weeks in this place, depending on how well his mental state can handle whatever will happen to him. He has to remain calm, which is ironic in Hell.<p>

Currently there is nothing to do but think. Castiel remembers when he swallowed the souls. It's hard to forget, though he has tried to repress it. The blurry part of this past year is when he relinquished his body to them – the Leviathans. Granted, it wasn't entirely his fault, he _did _try to get rid of all of them (too late) – sure that he was sacrificing his life in return, but relieved that he wouldn't have to face Dean or Sam or their bitter disappointment. Death was… the easy road and no doubt Death himself wanted to kick a little sense into his skull as well. Silly, naïve Castiel.

He would never be allowed to choose the easy road to redemption. There is none.

He realized that the moment he was blinded, although it surprised him that the thought had never occurred before, what with all the dying, betrayal, loss of faith, loss of Grace etc.

Again, silly and naïve.

Dean always did say he was a child.

As an angel, of course, he never understood. He was infinitely more powerful and therefore, logically, more wise. Turned out that Dean wasn't the only one who needed humility grounded into his brain. Yes, Castiel admits it. He was proud. That's a sin.

He lost his pride in those few seconds between waking up after he had dispelled those souls, just praising the thought of being alive, receiving a second chance. He regretted not having time to taste that, feel it. The loss of a sin.

Then he was no longer Castiel. Again.  
>Funny how many times he's lost himself.<p>

He supposes that was the moment when Dean decided to save him. Dean did always wait until things seemed about as bad as they could get. He had just been declared dead by an evil Leviathan monster-thingy, it doesn't get worse than that. Dean Winchester has always had bad timing.

Sam… Sam, well, Castiel is pretty sure that the following events in Sam's life mean that Sam will never forgive him for forcing Hell upon him. Dean… might. It's a small comfort, but a comfort none the less.

In this place, a silver lining – no matter how pitiful – is like a mental blanket – warm and soft

And the forgiveness of Dean is actually not so pitiful, really.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, on earth…<p>

Sam wonders absentmindedly whether he should dial a number that was received with the recipe of a pie that he fears his brother may never get to eat. It's a silly fear, but does it really take so long to find one ex-angel? Castiel always did play so hard to get…

Dean is getting a headache, though he isn't sure if it's the start of a hangover or the constant bickering of his, no doubt well-meaning, though annoying, _companions. _Also, they are terribly out of character – when did they become so nice to him, did they always care so much about their brother, how many beers has he downed? This is what he focuses on among all his questions, though some of the others he fears to ask, because of the possibility that he may not like the answers…

* * *

><p>The drums. He's been keeping them at bay by thinking, though he honestly doesn't want to do so much of that either. Stupid drums.<p>

He hasn't opened his eyes yet, not for a while. It's fear. He's afraid of Hell, blindness, loneliness, fear… Being human is so _hard, _all that fear. Still, nothing lasts forever, not even blissful unawareness of his current situation and he wants to meet whatever this new Hell will be, on his own terms.

So he opens his eyes and the drums stop so suddenly that the silence deafens him for a few seconds.

Sight returns just after and he can finally glimpse through the darkness again.

He sees blood on walls and meat hooks with flesh hanging in torn strips, shredded limbs, tortured souls.

But, a silver lining: At least he can see.

What a pitiful comfort.

* * *

><p>Crowley has decided to wait four seconds, earth time. It's about four hours down here, give or take. The time zone in Hell isn't an exact science, but varies from soul to soul, torture to torture.<p>

He wants for Castiel to become acquainted with the way things are done around here – victims and demons. If Castiel is smart, he'll realize that there are many upsides to running the place compared to being the ruined, tormented echo of a soul. Crowley won't mention that there is a risk that Castiel may not even end up in Hell, because good marketing dictates to never mention the small print.

His watch tells him that he has about three seconds left.

Time to drink a scotch.

* * *

><p>Whenever he closes his eyes, the drums return. They differentiate from each other, some sounding like large bells tolling from a grand church, others like a ten year old with his first drum kit. Castiel wonders whether Hell is trying to drive him insane by giving him a choice: watch the carnage around you or hear the drums banging in your head.<p>

At least there is no noise when he opens his eyes and although the images are burned into his retina until he dies (not mentioning the fact that he is technically already dead), he selfishly enjoys the return of his sight, no matter how gruesome the surroundings.

Thank God for small mercies in Hell.

* * *

><p>A door opens and Castiel sits on the dirty floor, well aware that it seems pitiful, but too tired to really care about dignity at the moment.<p>

Crowley seems slightly surprised and raises his eyebrows.

"Can I honestly say that you look terrible," he says, true concern dripping thickly from every syllable. "You should come with me, drink some scotch, maybe get wasted while we negotiate."

He waves a hand towards the door and Castiel stands up, power returning to his various limbs. He straightens his back, feeling for the first time since his mortal existence began (and ended) that he is not going to lose his feeling of worth along with his loss of Grace.

Crowley would rub his hands together with glee, had he not had more composure. It seems the final hurdle of their possible deal is about to begin.

And he still has a few tricks up his sullied sleeves.


	12. We all end up the remains of the day

**_A/N: So clearly, after watching how season 7 started off, there are were few "not so totally as predicted" scenes, but I stick to Castiel in this story, because he isn't actually dead (there, I said it... Now, if he did die/dies in a later episode I promise to eat my words)._**

**_A/N2: Title snuffled from one of my fave songs in Tim Burton's "Corpse Bride," although it has been used for a long time before that. Enjoy._**

* * *

><p><strong>We all end up the remains of the day<strong>

* * *

><p>Gabriel has left for the moment, following another heated debate with Balthazar on another, immaterial subject. Dean has a vague notion that they argue about these things to avoid thinking too much about their younger brother in hell. Dean remembers arguments like this he's had with Sam in the past. Whenever things got rough, they'd argue (about things like Dean's drinking, Dean's night time habits, Dean's language, Sam's hair etc).<p>

Balthazar is pouring himself a glass of something, having just told a surprised Dean about their brilliant plan to reach Castiel.

"Seriously?"

"Shocking, isn't it," says Balthazar, taking a long sip out of his glass.

"And that'll work?"

* * *

><p>Originally it was Dean who was assured of the fact that Castiel no longer deserved to live (or the Thing that used to be Castiel). He had, after all, messed with his brother's head and then refused to set it right, causing all sorts of havoc for their lives. Not to mention Dean – torn between hopelessly pursuing an evil being and not daring to believe that Cas was still under there, somewhere. It changed when Dean decided that Castiel needed saving instead of removing – except, of course, it turned out to be too late (or so they thought for a long time) that day, when he disappeared into the water, high on Leviathan souls and bleeding black blood. At least they salvaged his trenchcoat, but that wasn't really a consolation at all.<p>

No angel, no Leviathan, not even a corpse: A trenchcoat was all that remained.

* * *

><p>For a long time Dean had made peace with the fact that Cas was no more. Then came Christmas, the necklace and insane events ensued (more insane than usual and that's saying something). One of the main insanity benefactors being Castiel's apparent survival (well, the Leviathans had apparently appointed "Castiel" as their leader, his body being used to housing powerful creatures and his mind full of angel information of 2000 years of earth history - including detailed data on the Winchesters).<p>

In the end there was some sort of last battle, between the angels following their new "God" and a ragged pack of rebels. Dean was by that time aware of the fact that Castiel was hidden down there somewhere. Just like when Cas had possessed the "vessel" and Jimmy Novak had been an ongoing presence, manifesting itself in small quirks (like Castiel's love for rarely cooked meat), Castiel had somehow managed to burrow into a minor part of the body, appearing at odd times and places.

Poor Jimmy Novak. Not only was his body constantly being possessed by powerful beings looking for a bit of world domination, but he was also erased forever now.

Jimmy had no soul left to put into Heaven, it being collateral damage in a bloody sacrifice required to rid Castiel of the poison in his blood. It was gone, along with Grace. It seemed that evil didn't mix so well with pure Grace.

Still, Heaven is all a big fuzzy mess in Dean's mind. Every memory after dying (again), after the Leviathans… killed him. Dean wonders, even now, whether what happened was what they had _meant _to happen:

_Sam was with him when he died. It was tailored to wound the Winchesters equally – Sam watching his brother die and Dean, well, dying._

_Surprisingly, it was Cas who killed him, actually Cas, the real one. The Leviathans had never intended to kill him, initially. Their plan had been entirely more evil, because dying was really just an everyday occurrence for the Winchesters at this point. Sam was in infinite, Hell-inspired agony anyway (although he had for a long time known that Hell existed only in his mind, that didn't stop Lucifer from bleeding through the fault line). Dean was – according to them – a different matter. Dean they could hurt._

_A leering smirk, a drawn fist (because physically hurting someone just gives so much pleasure as compared to simply waving a hand to send someone flying against a wall) and as Dean took punch after punch, the Leviathans laughed, an insane outburst of pleasure. Sam was searching for him in a gigantic maze of long hallways and empty, dank rooms. Dean knew that if he could just hold out until his little brother arrived just in time to save him, then they would be able to save Castiel (because he was going to save Cas – he had died quite a few times and Dean wasn't going to let him die again)._

_Except, suddenly they stopped hitting him and Dean was sure that – for just a moment – Castiel was staring at him, a confused tilt of the head while he seemed to consider something._

_Hope. Dean really hates hope. He's felt hope way to many times and he did then, just for a moment as he recognized the face of someone who had been gone a long time._

_It didn't last, the stare transforming into a twisted grin as they leaned towards his battered face._

_The kiss was a taunt, a nod towards the demonic "seal a deal" that promised that Castiel was, indeed, no longer in existence, no longer a pure angel. It was harsh and rough and painful and Dean had literally felt the strength in his body draining like a used battery that would be tossed away with the rest of the rubbish – a broken doll that the Leviathans were bored from playing games with. His soul hurt. Actually hurt and he hadn't even realized that it was there before. It wasn't a kiss, it was something sucking his soul right out of his body, guaranteed to leave an empty, emotionless shell behind. He would be like Sam was. A mechanical puppet, working his way through life with no emotions, just like Sam had once been. It was weird that the excruciating pain in his chest, of having his soul swallowed by Cas was something he longed for –the alternative to the agony in his mind at this point being… nothing._

**_No, please don't._**

_And then suddenly his mutilated body dropped to the floor, dead. Castiel stumbled back, for a moment actually "Castiel, Angel of the Lord," before reverting back to the shaken, snarling Leviathans, cheated of their prize, Dean's soul. The soul had flown straight up to heaven (it somehow always surprised Dean when he ended up in the sky). That's when they laid siege to heaven, intent on reclaiming their prey. Stubborn bastards._

_Sam found Dean's corpse, neck broken, body broken, but soul intact.  
><em>

_Dean would return again. While Cas would fall to earth, ending up in a crater (wearing the trenchcoat that Dean had returned to him), alone and human. He'd drag himself out (the remnants of his Grace causing spontaneous growth wherever he placed his hands) and walk towards the motel in an unsteady daze. He'd spend his first night as human, scared and thinking, inside a dark motel room, contemplation the only comfort that remained.  
><em>

_...  
><em>

Castiel was like a child with a shotgun who'd been told his whole life that bad people always deserved punishment. Dean wanted to teach him, even had shared some knowledge of life couple of times in the past (that memorable de-virginizing incident). And Castiel was – once you got the stick out of his ass – a pretty avid student, eager enough to spread those modern ideas of Free Will and opposing the Evil Powers. But then…

Now the shotgun is removed and the child has realized that if you shoot somebody in the foot then that person will want to punish you. It's a stupid comparison to Castiel's current predicament, Dean knows. A shotgun does in no way justice to the massacre that followed the wake of the souls that inhabited Castiel's body. And the guy who's miffed at the wound in his foot will probably be wreaking a revenge that has nothing to do with paying for compensation or a long stretch behind bars for GBH.

Still… there's that annoying flutter of hope again.

Dean rubs his forehead.

What the angel told him has definitely reinstated his sense of purpose.

_Hold on Cas._

* * *

><p>"Cheers," says Crowley, downing his glass in one go. Castiel merely looks confused, (kidnap, torture, manipulation; this he understands from Crowley, but drinking in his office in hell…) so Crowley gulps down the glass standing before Castiel as well.<p>

"So, it seems we've been experiencing some miscommunication in dealing with this matter. I feel we should start again, maybe do some re-negotiating. What do you say, Cassie?"

"… Don't call me Cassie," growls Castiel, his voice sore from disuse. It's a surprise that he dares to say it, but his mouth is apparently simply echoing his thoughts without him being able to control it.

Crowley simply raises an eyebrow and smirks. "Of course, we'll make it the first item on our agenda. I won't ever call you… _that _again. Now, second item. I have an offer to make to you, because you so generously agreed to have a three minute –" he glances at his watch "-a two minute and forty three seconds tour of the facilities. I guarantee it's an offer you can't resist," he winks and pours himself some more scotch (seriously, this whole business risks turning him into an alcoholic). He gestures with the bottle. "You want?"

Castiel slowly shakes his head.

"Well then, straight to my offer: Three souls." He takes a small sip, relishing the taste more, now that he's back to discussing business transactions.

"Excuse me?"

"That's what I'm offering. You get to free three souls of your choosing. On top of that, you'll be getting your own office space with a view of your choice (he doesn't mention the lack of variety of scenery in hell), a steady work environment and occasional trips to the surface, (not too often, mind you, we don't want you straying too far from the fold, what with your rebellious streak and all) _and _my personal protection assurance, you know, in case someone with a grudge (and there are quite a few people with grudges against you) decides to come looking for you. Now, there's no need to decide as of yet, you still haven't _seen _what I'm offering you. So I'm thinking that you and I have a cosy chat with some of our long-term residents. Care to meet a few potentially salvageable souls?"

Crowley finishes his drink, internally applauding himself. That was a brilliant piece of selling and the _pièce de résistance _hasn't even been laid on the table yet.

Crowley has in fact already picked three souls with entirely different backgrounds, just to add a bit of diversity. It's cheating a bit, but you don't get to the top by playing fair. And you don't get yourself your very own fallen angel by acting nice.

Castiel nods. "Alright."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Archive information - RESTRICTED ACCESS<em>**

_**(Woman filed under NP)  
><strong>_

_**Former name**_: _Nuelle Pelletier._

_**History:**_ Lived in 1641 in a small, unnamed village in France with her twelve older brothers. Her mother was dead and her father a worked as a furrier. She was accused of witchcraft due to her abilities as a healer, particularly towards animals which she could "bring back from the dead." Her father and brothers were executed (or massacred) for harbouring a witch, but she escaped.

_**Crime:**_ At the age of seventeen she made a deal with a demon. The deal entailed that she be allowed the means to avenge her family in the bloodiest way possible – at the last moment she repented and decided to spare the village. Unfortunately the deal had already been made and she was sent to hell. The demon (to honour the deal fully) then burned the village to the ground, despite her change of heart.

**Died age 27.**

**...  
><strong>

**_(Male filed under AS)_**

_**Former name:**_ Andrew Simmons

_**History:**_ American, born in 1978 in Texas. His mother left his father when he was five after she had an affair with another man (they later married – _note: She is down here too, due to poisoning her new father and mother in law and strangling her second husband with a tie – filed under "SS"). _Andrew Simmons started selling drugs to pay for his education, but he was arrested and thrown out of school. His father consequently disowned him and he ended up on the street - a drug addict. He began suffering from mental delusions and drug induced hallucinations.

_**Crime:**_ killed three people in a car accident and committed himself to an asylum after he repeatedly claimed that he was being prosecuted by demons (_this wasn't actually the case_). While inside, he broke into the medicine cabinet, dosed himself on pills and killed another patient with a plastic fork. When the orderlies came for him, he screamed that the other patient was the devil(_again, not true). _

He was executed.

**Died age 24.**

**...  
><strong>

**_(Male filed under JO._**_ Side note – soul was a minor_**_)_**

**_Former name:_** Jadako O'Connor

_**History:**_ Born 1997 in Poland, Tarnów to religious parents. Grew up in a Catholic neighbourhood and was indoctrinated with the belief that bad people get punished. He started gathering files on fellow pupils attending his classes, deciding that he was going to punish the wicked with penalties fitting their individual crimes.

_**Crime:**_ After almost a year of petty theft, killing the pets of the wrong-doers, vandalizing and sending reprimanding notes to the guilty (this was used as preferred method of retribution) Jadako O'Connor kidnapped two "sinful" children and executed them with a shotgun. Upon – a year later – reflecting on his past actions as depravities (thou shalt not kill), he wrote a letter in which he decided that he had made mistakes – thinking that he was doing God's work – and didn't deserve heaven. Afterwards he committed suicide by hanging himself in his room.

**Died age 15.**

* * *

><p>The three souls no longer have names, identities, pasts or futures. They just <em>are<em>. They have been chosen specifically because they still have remnants of humanity within them, although it is buried, hidden deep underneath layers of stripped and mutilated "being." Also, perhaps Castiel can relate to people who did bad things in the name of goodness.

Ah, that unfortunate road, littered with millions of damned souls, grasping at rapidly unwinding strings of good intentions: Crowley wants to get to his knees and French kiss it.

_Actually, I will… once Cassie says yes. I'm allowed to _think "_Cassie". Hm, I wonder what it'll be like French kissing ex angel-boy – Now that'll be one of the sweetest closings to a deal ever._

Time to meet the neighbours. Or what remained of them, anyhow.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright, so this really isn't meant to say "hey, Im randomly trying to get Dean + Cas to kiss," I was actually going more for Harry Potter, Dementor-creepy. Hope I suceeded (yes, I'm worried I may have crossed some line). reviews are (as usual) craved with an almighty thirst for appreciation.<strong>

**Lots of Sammy in the next chapter**...


	13. BONUS CHAPTER

_**A/N: Right, so this chapter takes place on the same day, but some time before "Short Tales" when Sam calls Dean. I wrote it mostly because I didn't want to waste a good monster (or, faintly ridiculous monster actually) and because I miss some Sammy POV.**_

_**A/N 2: Since the show saw fit to blow up Bobby's home I'm just gonna say that in this story it's either A. been rebuilt or B. moved someplace else. Whatever floats your boat.**_

_**And yes, I am aware of the increasing amount of AU'ishness as season 7 progresses, but am looking forward to seeing how many of my predictions come true^^  
><strong>_

_**Tikbalang: .  
><strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>All the pretty horses<strong>

* * *

><p>Hunting again, albeit without his brother, felt good. There was just something downright <em>normal <em>about talking to a supposed nutter in an asylum about a weird death that happened in a creepy wood on the outskirts of a town filled with suspiciously demonic omens. Bobby was waiting in the truck for Sam to return from his little interview with the witness. _"I didn't see it, just heard them… it – they w – were laughing… I found him… de-dea…they'd trampled him to dea… I-" she stopped talking, taking deep breaths, Sam putting a comforting hand on her trembling shoulder… "-I… begged to be allowed to get out of the woods and... they – they let me go. Please, I'm not crazy…Please believe me." _

_So, one dead boyfriend, one traumatized girl who actually survived and… Something in the woods. Fun._

Bobby turned the keys to the ignition and the rusty engine roared into life, as Sam opened the side door and sat down beside him. "So?"

Sam pulled a map from in front of him and pinpointed the area: "Red Lake Falls."

* * *

><p>They arrived at a funeral – weeping women, miserable men and cheerless children walking in a long sombre line of grief filled, lethargic shock.<p>

A coffin was being borne through a small gate into a depressing graveyard and the procession followed slowly after, as though trailing after a morbid Pied Piper. A few people who weren't joining in the festivities were standing on curbs, wearing heavy coats and sporting umbrellas, although it wasn't raining at that moment, despite the clouds looming ominously on the horizon.

Bobby drove the car to rest against the pavement and shut off the motor. "So what do you wanna be, Sam? Clothes look too shabby for FBI, but maybe EIA."

"EIA?"

"Enviromental investigation Agency, protecting endangered species – like the one that mauled a civilian in the woods around here."

"Yeah, we could pull that off," grinned Sam and Bobby handed him one of a dozen fake ID's.

Then they both stepped out and nodded to one another, before walking in opposite directions down the street, each heading towards somebody who was watching the funeral as it wandered listlessly through the graveyard.

_**… Sam …**_

"Environmental Investigation Agency. I'm here to enquire to the events that happened a week ago, the so-called animal attack…"

"Animal attack?"

"… Right, as I said, animal attack, that's why we're on the case…"

"Seems kinda pointless for a government agency to be looking into that, doesn't it?"

"Well, the EIA takes it very seriously, sir. We're actually wondering whether this is an isolated case…"

"Isolated?"

"Yeah, as in, anything else weird happen lately?"

"Huh. Where do I start? How about with that."

"The funeral?"

"Yeah. Sixth this month. All of them under a year old."

"Yeah, that's just the sort problem that the EIA could look into."

"So, it's some sort of environmental type like thing that's killing babies and eating campers in the woods?"

"… Yeah. Thanks for your time."

_**… Bobby …**_

"… EIA, we're currently workin' on the couple of campers who were in the woods, if you've heard of the case…"

"Yeah, I heard of that. Heard she was a crazy who sliced up her boyfriend and scattered him around the woods."

"No, we're pretty sure that we're huntin' an endangered species here."

"Seriously?"

"Damn straight, now, I wanted to ask whether you've been seeing anything else weird around here lately?"

"Well… I don't get out much, but… I guess… power surges, do they count?"

"Oh, yeah, The EIA cares very much about… that. It could be related to all kinds of environmental problems."

"So, let me get this straight, there's some sort of carnivorous _thing _in the woods that's eating folks?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"And it's… cutting through the power cables?"

"Something like that. Thanks for your time."

* * *

><p>They met each other back at the truck.<p>

"Well, I got several people talkin' about weird weather changes, power surges and forest fires. Not to mention _that_," said Bobby, pointing towards the group of black clad people now trailing out from the gate and wandering in different directions down the street.

"Yeah, me too. It's strange, it sounds almost demonic. Except, what's up with killing babies?"

Bobby shrugged. "So… check out the graves?"

* * *

><p>Sam was at his computer, having searched for almost an hour on possible MO's that would fit the bill. They'd searched the gravesites and discovered that something had busted out of all six of them – something that had left the ground rotted and thoroughly destroyed the coffins. The original theory had leaned towards zombies, but that didn't fit in with the demonic signs – granted, there technically wasn't anything that really made sense.<p>

"I brought liquid inspiration, Sam," Bobby's usual growling voice announced upon slamming the motel door behind him. "So, you found anything yet?"

"Yeah… Philippine folklore. It's weird, what with all the demon stuff going on, but it explains our mystery "endangered species" attack on the campers. And how the girl survived," Sam began .Then he hesitated. "But… it's weird, you know," he repeated.

Bobby shot him an incredulous look. "Kid, I think after stoppin' the second apocalypse I started believin' anything."

"Alright… Tikbalang. It's translated to _demon horse_. It, uh, leads travellers in the woods astray and sometimes malevolent _horses _trample them to death. You can escape them by asking them nicely if you can pass, which is what our witness did. They… look sorta like horses, but they walk on two legs and… smoke cigars." Sam frowned as he read the last sentence aloud, but continued: "They're basically dead babies or the unborn that have been touched by a demonic presence."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Cigars?"

"I don't think that's what we should be focusing on here."

"Yeah, but… You sure they're real?"

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Well, it fits. Sorta."

"Alright. So why are demons creating killer horse babies?"

"See, you make it sound so much less plausible when you say it like that."

Bobby opened the bottle of Jack he'd brought. "Well, I think we've learned in this business that plausible ain't a requirement for real."

"Good point." Sam sighed. "You know… Maybe we should just ask a demon."

* * *

><p>They were walking through the woods – about four hours after arriving in the town. It was surprising, thought Sam, that this hunt had been so <em>easy. <em>It annoyed him, somehow. He was doing something familiar, something to take his mind off everything that had happened and everything that was happening – also, he regretted not joining Dean and he was trying to take his mind off that as well. Except a hunt that only took four hours made him think: Sure, Castiel was practically completely responsible for freeing a bunch of megalomaniacal freaks and almost destroying the world (still, the end of the world was slowly becoming a daily occurrence), but – and Sam had been trying to push the thought from his mind – Castiel was almost family. In Dean's eyes Castiel was as much family as Sam or Bobby. Sam really wanted to hate the angel, but no, he didn't. He couldn't blame Castiel for busting open the doors to purgatory, or for breaking down his wall. He couldn't blame him for killing Dean. In all fairness, Dean did die a lot.

Sam also had a vague suspicion that if Dean just told him about the events that Sam had missed (everything that went down in heaven) he'd even be welcoming Castiel back with open arms, instead of a lukewarm, half tempted to kill, sort of deal.

Which was why he hunted. It was his twisted, Winchester way of forcing his mind to focus on something he was good at, instead of constantly considering a dilemma that ran in circles in his mind.

The demon they'd summoned had merely been the closest one in the vicinity. It was a weak, snivelling coward, which made their job pretty easy. It'd broken after the first bout of holy water – really weak. They had asked about the point to killing babies and apparently the plan was… Nothing.

The Leviathans were permanently removed from the surface of the planet, Castiel had vanished and was hunted by every supernatural being that he'd screwed over and earth was currently easily accessible, since the King of Hell had gone AWOL (Sam was at this point in time sure that Crowley was dead). So a lot of demons were up here, causing mindless, pointless mayhem, because they could. As it turned out, most of the demons had already left this town to the tikbalang (demon horses just sounded way too "my little pony gone bad" so Sam and Bobby stuck to tikbalang) and there were only three of demons left, who'd remained to watch the show.

And now Sam was trudging through the damp, leafy undergrowth, having successfully exorcised three demons and after discovering the identity of a ridiculous demonic killer. He was figuring that he'd be done in half an hour and back at Bobby's in two. After that he'd be back to staring tormented at his phone, deliberating whether it would be considered over-protective if he called his brother just for the sake of hearing he was alive.

* * *

><p>The methods involved in confronting a tikbalang involve asking nicely whether you can pass, turning your shirt inside out to distract them or plucking three hairs from their mane, which makes them obedient servants. Therefore, it makes sense that to kill them, you'd have to force them into service and then order them to commit suicide. Simple, much too simple for Sam's liking, because it could be done while constantly worrying.<p>

Bobby had managed to incapacitate the first one early on, Sam keeping watch, but his body working on automatic. His mind wasn't present in the woods, wasn't a part of the hunt anymore now that the thinking was over and the fighting was starting. It didn't require much brain power to attack a giant horse demon.

_I feel guilt, _thought Sam, noting at the same time that he spent an awful lot of the time considering his feelings. _Maybe I was a chick in another life._

There was the smell of smoke as the remaining five surrounded them, keeping just distant enough so that the only sign of their presence was the constant giggling and the stench of cigars. Two of them attacked, one knocking Sam into a tree, but not before he'd managed to yank three strains of hair from it.

_I feel guilty, because I clearly don't care as much as Dean, but I'm also angry, _continued Sam's unabashedly honest thoughts as the remaining tikbalang (three of them, not giggling anymore, luckily, because it was very annoying) held back in the darkening shadows of the trees. _Can a horse actually giggle, it doesn't really have the mouth for it when you think about it. _This contemplation was followed by the final tikbalang assault.

_I'm angry because after everything Dean doesn't seem to want to tell me anything about heaven and it's affecting my judgement on this matter._ The sensation that arose within him was a sort of numbness towards the current situation, because all his emotions were focused on his older brother. He and Bobby dispatched the last three and he didn't remember how, (only that he killed three in all so Bobby must have done the other half without Sam even noticing).

Seen from Bobby's eyes, Sam was cool and cynical. However, he didn't notice Bobby shooting concerned glances towards his expressionless face.

_Mostly, I'm anxious. This whole "thing" with Cas just seems to be an opening for something bad to happen again. Because we never catch that break, I just know it._

_Maybe I should call Dean._

* * *

><p><strong><em>I think it was important to see how Sam is feeling and I rather enjoyed writing the words "killer horse babies." That chance just doesn't occur every day. TBC...<em>**_  
><em>


	14. And then what happens?

**Then what happens?**

* * *

><p>They look dishevelled and surprised, but carefully so, as though not certain how to exactly proportion their expressions correctly to portray the emotion of "surprise." Nobody can blame them, having been without a body for… a long time. Down here it's something along the lines of hundreds – up to thousands – of years. Although, after a certain amount of time – just as the blood of the souls washes away and becomes a constant stream that is commonplace – the days bleed into one, going by unnoticed and none of the souls care, not with everything else that's going on. Counting days is depressing, forgetting them easy and it's often one of the first things about humanity that damned souls turn their backs on. Time stands still.<p>

The absence of blood in this grandiose office is practically _abnormal _to the souls.

Much can be said about Crowley, but the demons all agree that he has reformed Hell (although the demonic service is still mediocre at best). It's no longer simply hot pokers and sharp objects. It's _psychological, _all to do with the mind. Take his never-ending queue. To the casual observer it's not very nice to know that you're going to be waiting in line for the rest of your life (or death, or whatever), but it's so much more than that. The sensation that won't go away, telling you "_there's a light at the end of the queue – there's an end to it all." _But there isn't, not really. The point is, you give them hope and then tear it from them, only to wait until they're so desperate for _something _that they'll reach out and retrieve their shattered hopes, knowing somewhere that it's all going to be yanked away again. Because you can't torture someone who has nothing left for you to take away. Sure, there's physical stuff as well, but, _come on, _what would pain be without that burning faith that someday you can be saved, redeemed… except that never actually happens. Until now, that is. Oh, and Dean Winchester, but that was a debacle that still gets laughed about at the company dinners.

The boy shuffles his feet, enjoying the odd sensation of having feet to shuffle. The woman suddenly remembers that she is, in fact, a woman and that there is a difference between her and the two males she stands between. It's nice, knowing that you're different, not just one of many souls. Only the man remains suspicious and refuses to submit to the pleasure of having a body again, keeping the newly regained rapture at bay, pretty sure that it won't last long.

They all wonder what the Hell is going on.

The souls flinch at the sudden appearance of Crowley and Castiel.

"Uhm… Hello," says Castiel, not sure what the proper procedure for greeting damned souls in Hell is.

Crowley languishes in a large, plushy armchair situated behind the desk and sips another endless glass of scotch. "So. Here they are, three souls, aren't they adorable? And _you _get to be somebody's hero, even if it isn't for the Winchesters. Seriously, Cas, You drive a hard bargain, but you've gotta admit, it doesn't get sweeter than this."

"Who are they?" asks Castiel.

"Well, we've got files, but I personally think all that paperwork is overrated, I mean, it's not even that well written. There's no flow, no dialog, no talent. You don't seriously want to read it –" Castiel raises an eyebrow, " – or Hell, if you feel like being bored to death." Crowley points at the desk to three files. "Knock yourself out."

The souls are too terrified to move. This is _the King Of Hell, _capital letters included. The strange man in the suit is, for the moment, an unknown factor in this turn of events. They aren't sure whether to fear him or not, but this can't be good, especially because… there, in front of them: _The King Of Hell. _

Castiel flicks through the papers, speed reading the facts. His face doesn't betray any emotions, which annoys Crowley who would like to see his carefully handpicked aces have some effect on the angel.

Oh well. This is it. His last card and it's a rarely used one. He's tried playing on Castiel's pride, his hurt, betrayal, fear and hopelessness. And he's been stubborn, very much so. It's been frustrating to see how much the angel has learnt from their previous escapades. Now Crowley is going for a radically different vein: self-sacrifice.

It's one thing to forfeit your soul to Hell for purely selfish reasons, but once in a while there's some sodding goodwill freak who just _will not do_ what's best for himself. The Winchesters (all four of them, mummy, daddy and sons) all had that cursed personality streak and so does Castiel, more so now than ever. Crowley has realized that Castiel won't give himself up to save his own skin, but to redeem someone else…

Crowley tries not to think too much about things now. The whole deal is a runaway train and it can either derail or finish up at the next station, intact, brought to a close.

All he can do is… drink some more and be glad that the body he's given himself down here (he's sticking with the literary agent, because he likes that meatsuit) can't waste away under prolonged alcohol abuse.

Castiel looks up, glances towards Crowley, gaze trailing hesitantly to the souls (it's that "forlorn puppy" thing he's got going on), back to Crowley, to the floor. Crowley wishes he could see what the outcome of the internal battle in Castiel's mind is swinging towards.

Then…

"I'm going for a walk."

Crowley – who had unknowingly been holding his breath – sinks into the chair as Castiel disappears through the door in a swish of dramatic cheap suit (the trenchcoat being absent for the moment).

_Well… this is just… getting annoying._

Crowley suddenly hurls his bottle of scotch at the place where Castiel vanished and the souls flinch, but don't move from the spot.

Bugger it all. Because he's been devoting all that time on _him,_ he's been neglecting Hell, all that paperwork… he wishes he had a secretary. All because the damn _angel _(ex-angel, but somehow that fact keeps slipping his mind right now) is having issues.

_Very annoying._

* * *

><p>"Alright, ready to go sunshine?"<p>

"Yeah, no _wait… _why are you even helping, I mean, you friggin hate me.

"…true. But I've been brought back for a purpose. And you – and that other loathsome little (emphasise on the "little") bastard I've been forced to work with – are the one to help me. That sets us on the same team, again. Strange how our Cassie has managed to acquire a fan base consisting of creatures who hate each other, isn't it."

Before Dean can think up a retort, Balthazar has placed two fingers on his forehead and he collapses to the floor, unconscious.

"Wow, your sweet talk makes me all tingly, grouchy. What do you have against Dean, anyway?"

Balthazar shrugs. "Oh, so many things, more than I can be bothered to say. What about you?"

"Well, he "Jiminy cricketed" my conscience to make me try to kill my brother and I ended up with an angelblade sticking through my chest, courtesy of Luci. And now I'm still helping out, instead of celebrating my blessed resurrection. And he's friggin' annoying. I prefer his brother."

"Cheers to that," mutters Balthazar and hands Gabriel a glass.

"So?" asks Gabriel.

"… So what?" counters Balthazar, downing his own glass and licking his lips to enjoy more of the taste. One of the wonders of humanity: Alcoholism.

"Well, I just went all psychological on my problems with the guy, what about you?"

"Alright. He made me… A _decent _person. And look where I ended up, killed by Cas, the naïve bastard we're trying to save… I hate bloody irony."

"Yeah. We get off the angel bandwagon and all we want is some fun on earth, then we get pulled into a different gang, Team friggin Winchester. And we die and we _still _don't get any peace."

"They're like… cockroaches, yes?"

"Yeah." Gabriel gestures and Balthazar pours another glass of the never ending supply of drink that he constantly pulls out of nowhere.

"You know what. You and I might actually have something in common," grins Balthazar, as though pleasantly surprised.

"What, devilish good looks, angelic awesomeness and an "anti-Dean/pro-Cas" badge. Yeah, yeah we do."

"_And, _don't forget this." Balthazar waves the bottle and they both drink their third glass in one go, filling up a fourth.

Then they both delve into the whiskey with enthusiasm, sitting on the edge of the bed and toasting increasingly absurd causes (a toast to the miracle of decadence… to the perks of rebellion) and occasionally lapsing into companionable silence (if they hadn't been too busy being silent, they would have been freaked out by the fact that _they _were being silent). Somehow though, there is still the feeling that an unstoppable flow of dialog is running between them, without words or movement. They're speaking by their Grace and brotherhood, considering deeper things than would ever pass their lips were they speaking aloud.

The quiet is broken by Dean starting to snore and Balthazar glances at him lying on the floor in a seemingly disinterested manner. He stands up (not at all unsteady on his feet, they haven't been drinking a whole liquor store.) "_I think," _he declares,_ "_we should probably report back now."

"Yeah." Then: "Speaking of irony, I can't _believe _we're back to working for angels."

Balthazar scoffs. "Tell me about it, but… I actually want to help that son of a bitch get out of hell and if this is gonna help, well, I'm willing to swallow some of my pride as a respectable crook."

"Cheers to respectability," mutters Gabriel.

* * *

><p>Castiel is sauntering nonchalantly through the fields of Hell. They're pretty bleak. Castiel, however, doesn't give the twisted landscape a second glance, doesn't heed the burning wind that wails depressingly through the netherworld. Faint shrieks and wails are carried with the wind, but the senseless moans of the damned are lost to Castiel who trudges desolately down an ash-coated hill, sighing, his sighs joining the cacophony of grating screams and howling cries.<p>

He is sure that Crowley is throwing a minor fit at his sudden departure (actually he's surprised that Crowley has been so patient, he always did have a tendency to throw tantrums when under pressure). Still, selling your soul isn't a matter to be taken lightly… Wait, did he just think that? Would he do it? Dean would be proud, self-sacrifice _is _the Winchester way. Except, well, it's Crowley and when has a deal with him ever been good? But, it's not like he'd be tortured for all eternity, or what? The terms of the deal aren't incredibly clear, they simply state "**Hells Bitch**" in bold letters. Whatever that entails… He's seriously considering taking it. Those souls, pitiful, hopeful… he's seriously considering taking it…

… and he knocks into a stooped figure, which promptly drops a dozen thick scrolls and a large feather pen.

"S-sorry" Castiel stutters, kneeling in the grime and ash to retrieve the dropped items, only to realize that the person is holding them under one arm, while extending the other hand to help Castiel from the ground.

Castiel grips it without hesitation and brushes the dirt off his trousers (huh, he wonders where the trenchcoat went, he hasn't seen it since… since the motel)

"Didn't you ever hear the expression: You give me your hand, I'll take an arm," says the figure. Castiel can't see what it looks like, it's hidden under a long, grey robe with a large hood. In Hell the creature could resemble anything.

"It is… unknown to me. What does it mean?"

It means that one should be careful who to trust down here. Nobody helps from the goodness of their heart."

Castiel steps back, wary. The person laughs.

"But I think that you're safe to rely on. You're too… helpful to seem suspicious."

"Thank you?" tries Castiel, not sure whether there was actually a compliment in that sentence or if it's a reprimand (demons aren't, after all, known for their trustworthiness).

"So, who are you?" The voice (male, by the sound of it) questions.

For a moment Castiel wants to lie, but he's always been terrible at the art and he doesn't want to sully a brand new soul while in Hell. There's no telling what a demon like Crowley could do with a lie told in Hell. Probably find half a dozen legal reasons to snatch his soul without any deal at all.

"Castiel."

"Oh," the figure seems surprised. "You're scrawnier than I pictured."

"You know me?" asks Castiel, taken aback, hoping he hasn't made a mistake in confiding with this being (a being he _just _met in Hell, he reminds himself again… just because he seems to keep forgetting that fact).

"Yes, brother. You're one of the fallen angels – oh don't worry, I don't judge, I just take account," it hurriedly finishes, as Castiel seems about to answer back at his "fallen angel" status. "You wouldn't recognize me, not in this pitiful state. It's a disguise, can't have the demons see an angel in their midst."

A bright light suddenly blinds Castiel momentarily and he hears Enochian words spoken inside his head, before everything reinserts itself in a flash. The gloom of his surroundings is so intense that he can't see in the absence of the angelic light that his brother spread around the desolate scenery.

"Who are you?" Castiel asks, grasping blindly into the darkness, not even sure what he's trying to feel, but painfully aware of the return of blindness. To lose his sight again may be one of his greatest fears. He begins to recognize the shapes of his surroundings, his eyes adjusting tantalizingly slowly (so that's the effect that his light used to have on humans, provided he didn't burn their eyes out. Apparently he is able to survive both the true voice and shape of an angel). The angel before him has returned to the shape of a bent figure, hidden beneath an enormous grey shroud.

"I am Ruman, stationed down here to keep an eye on the evil-doers in Hell. See if there are any reformers, anyone worth redeeming. I write it down in my papers, I have every soul down here, yet I don't recall seeing yours. What are you doing down here?"

Castiel shrugs. "Selling my soul, it seems."

"Oh, a deal with a devil, they're always fascinating to observe. The things that people will sacrifice their immortal soul for…" Ruman's voice teeters into silence, as though waiting for some sort of answer.

"I do not know anymore why I am doing it, brother." The word tastes good, after so long denying family he can finally use that word again. "It's all… complicated. How long have you been here?"

Ruman shrugs, an incredibly human gesture. "A while, a few thousand years or so."

"Oh." Then: "How is it?"

"Working in Hell. It's… different from my former postings, I think it may have changed me a bit and the view leaves much to be desired, but… I sort of like the job," Ruman concludes, his voice sounding like he's only just thought the matter through.

"Hell is not so bad?" Castiel's voice is curious.

"Can't complain, better than earth I'm sure. Are you seriously considering the proposition this… demon has made you?" It's not asked in an accusing tone, simply innocently inquisitive.

"I don't know. I…" Castiel didn't know what to say. That he wishes to save three souls, that he yearns for the safety and routine that would follow the selling of his soul, that Crowley seems the only creature in existence capable of delivering some sort of catharsis of his past sins and failings. Even if Castiel should ever see the Winchesters again, he would not be worthy, he is already soiled, even if this brand new soul is not. That this body is not even his, it belongs to another human whom he has successfully erased from existence, not when Castiel nuked his own Grace, but from the moment he manipulated Jimmy to saying "yes." What will await him, should he decline. Nothing. Castiel cannot return to nothing, he has already had a year of hopelessness, chained to monsters that he himself brought forth.

That inside Castiel feels… evil.

And there is only one place that evil belongs.

Ruman glares searchingly at Castiel's face, all those thoughts tumbling right to the tip of his tongue in a muddled mess that Castiel wouldn't have the faintest clue how to pronounce out loud. So he allows them to remain unsaid and presume that it is understood, despite the fact that he – no longer an angel –has no bond to the brother standing in front of him.

"I see," states Ruman, not clarifying what exactly he means. Castiel hangs his head, suddenly feeling very dejected.

"Well, as I said, I don't judge. I am merely an observer. If you want someone to tell you whether you are making a good judgement call, you should seek out Zaapiel, although I doubt you'll find her down here, it's a big place. I was surprised to bump into you, actually," said Ruman.

"You have no advice?" asks Castiel, a slightly desperate plea in his voice.

"Simply consider the fact that if a deal sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Can't give you more than that, but if you do decide to hang around, I hope to meet you again. You are… fascinating."

Ruman turns around and leaves Castiel alone on the hill.

Something burnt flutters past Castiel's face, but he doesn't notice. His mind is yet again elsewhere and he feels more confused than ever. Although he is pretty sure why he is about to do what he is about to do, he still feels… wrong. Why should a decision feel both wrong and right at the same time, it's not _fair, _thinks Castiel. Then he turns around to return to Crowley, the decision rising more like bile in his stomach than the relief he'd been hoping for.

He doesn't turn his head to observe the bitter Hell he is in, doesn't note the scorching air he breathes (is there even air in Hell, or is it merely a fluke of human imagination that allows the brain to pretend that something as normal as breathing exists here). The agonized cries of the damned pass him by as though he is deaf to their suffering.

He doesn't need to notice these things, because they are in his head all the time, images growing clearer with every decisive step he takes in that direction, although he won't change his mind, he knows nothing will change it now…

… Except…

Castiel gasps, struggling for the technically non-existent air: "_No. _What are _you _doing here?"


	15. The family business part 1

_**A/N: On with the train, finally. Btw, am I right in thinking that Misha Collins has confirmed his return in the tenth episode of the season (oh, I hope so)? Still, a break from angels has actually been quite nice, I've missed some purely brotherly angst^^**_

* * *

><p><strong>The family business part 1 (Dean)<strong>

* * *

><p>Angels are basically one big dysfunctional family. Put them in a room together and you'll start a minor war (all those Sunday dinners, what a waste of celestial good food). Their way of surviving each other has, for millennia, been to reshape the perfect family ideal into a social hierarchy. Calling one another "brother" and "sister" is either out of habit, good upbringing or (in rare circumstances) out of an outdated family love.<p>

Even the names serve no higher function than to show the other angels what job they've been saddled with, from "the angel of Thursday" to "The Voice of God." Some angels naturally root together, having the same ideals or political standpoints, but there were never outright murders within the family in the past. Angels were too nice for that sort of barbarianism, unlike humans or demons. Angels had _class._

But then, suddenly, there were orders and conflicts and apocalypses that never happened and civil wars and death and none of the angels really knew who won. Rafael was gone. Castiel had disappeared.

Heaven calmed down. Angels counted their losses and realized that there were many, too many. Angels were without orders for the first _real _time ever and what they did was clean up. It took a while. It meant that they had plenty of time to think.

And then several angels tentatively started telling other angels to go back down to earth and watch their week days or go on a vessel search, so that they could keep an eye on humanity again. Some of the more important angels would meander soulfully around Heavens gardens to philosophize. Others were sent to check on the souls and _apologize _for all the management cock-ups that had been going on lately, because it had been decided that the new administration ought to be more caring and slightly less "end of days-ish." Not all angels agreed upon this new policy, but it seemed that another war would be overkill, not to mention in bad taste, so they merely complained in a politely scornful tone of voice at the amount of attention being paid to the mud monkeys.

Apart from all these other angels, there are a few who are currently taking orders from a completely different source. Among these can be mentioned Zophiel, Balthazar and Gabriel. They are watching – with interest – certain proceedings currently going on down on earth.

The importance of these proceedings may seem trivial, but apparently far exceed Heaven getting back on its feet, because the orders come from above and beyond anything that had taken part in the apocalypse. There is even to be paperwork, an assessment written from each angel on their personal opinion in the matter. Angels being allowed an opinion, that's a new one. There is a lot of "new" going around currently...

* * *

><p>Zophiel stands in a pleasant garden that is the eternal Tuesday afternoon of an autistic man who drowned in a bathtub in 1953. He wonders why this is the place chosen to hand in his report on events happening downstairs. A kite drifts aimlessly through the incredibly blue sky as it has done for over fifty human years. Today, however, there is a slight alteration in the scene. Instead of holding the string attached to the kite the man whose Heaven is this simple sunny day is sitting on a bench that is slightly hidden beneath a large weeping willow. He is engrossed in a deep conversation with someone else. <em>Ah, there you are, <em>thinks Zophiel. As if having heard, the person glances towards him and gestures that Zophiel should approach. The autistic man vanishes from the bench and is suddenly holding onto the kite again, face furrowed in deep concentration as he watches the kite. Zophiel sits down beside the third occupant of this Heaven, back straight and hands on his lap.

"You can relax," smiles the person. It's a contagious smile and Zophiel feels unfamiliar facial muscles twitch. His back slumps slightly as he leans back against the rest, but he remains stiff. Relaxation is… hard. And new.

"I've been to earth," says Zophiel.

"Yes, I know. I understand it went well."

"It did. I've assisted Dean Winchester, but I haven't assessed the other Winchester yet… Sam. You didn't leave much time."

"I apologize."

Zophiel seems immediately distraught. "I – did not mean – "

He is answered with a laugh: "No need for stuttering, I quite understand the busy schedule I've set for you few chosen ones. Still, tell me about Dean."

"He seems… dedicated to the point of foolishness. I respect him," states Zophiel.

A nod. "Good, just what I'd hoped for. So you think he'll continue until the end?"

"Yes."

* * *

><p>There's something called a "profound bond." According to Heaven a profound bond extends beyond angelic powers and into a part of the body that cannot be defined by Grace or souls, therefore it ought to still function whether one is human, angel, monster or demon. Castiel once said that he and Dean share one, which is - as the ever-helpful angels told Dean - an important factor in the rescue of their blushing damsel in distress: Castiel.<p>

.

After the day when the Leviathans seemingly drowned Cas in a lake, Dean started to get into the habit of dreaming about Castiel on a basis that couldn't be described as natural (although nothing in the life of a Winchester is natural). Dean used to think it was guilt, but Castiel knows that it's more a sort of signaling device, indicating to one of them if the other is in trouble, courtesy of(you guessed it) the profound bond.

The dreams would vary from seeing Castiel "dying" in the lake to, say, a dream in which the two of them were in a darkened wood and Castiel would think that he'd been restored to an angel. This gift of being able to find each other in dreams, despite the lack of "angelism" is what Balthazar and Gabriel have utilized in their strategy to save Cas. The two of them have a gift for getting people out of (or into for that matter) situations that are generally deemed irredeemable (the mark of a good criminal). The current plan involves out of the box thinking of the likes of which they can provide.

Their ingenious plan is...well… ridiculously ingenious. They put Dean to sleep and he finds Castiel all on his own by honing in on the signal that exists between the he'll find a clever way to yank Cas out of the pit. Dean had a surprising amount of faith in their ingenious plan, but, then again, they'd proven themselves before with many other ingenious plans (until, of course, they died - that was less than ingenious, if terribly heroic).

However, this plan is going to work, they've decided. probably, almost 100% certainty, almost.

* * *

><p>Dean meets Castiel on a desolate hill in the middle of a nowhere in Hell.<p>

"Hey Cas."

"_No. _What are _you _doing here?"

"Uh, Looking for you, " says Dean dumbly, because now that he's found Cas, it's hard to think of what to say. "You got your eyes back."

Castiel nods slowly. "Yes. That was… a pleasant surprise. Dean, are you dead?"

"I don't _think _so, but it's hard to tell after the first fifty times you've been killed. What about you?"

"I believe that I am dead for three minutes, earth time. It's part of a… deal I made." Castiel's voice stutters to a halt at the expression on Dean's face.

"Cas? _What did you do_?"

"It hurt, Dean. So I took the pain away… But, if you're wondering, I still have my soul. For the moment."

Dean flinches at the last sentence and doesn't have an answer, so instead he nods towards Castiel's dirty, ashen suit. "I, uh… I Have your coat."

"Thank you. You can keep it."

"I want you to take it back though," replies Dean, eyes narrowing slightly. "Cover up that godawful suit of yours."

"It would be an honour… if you kept it, despite my past failings," mumbles Castiel.

In response, Dean, annoyed, smacks him across the head – or he tries to, but his hand goes straight through.

"It seems you're not dead then," smiles Castiel – he hasn't smiled for a long time and it feels good to be happy about something. Dean stares at his own hand, then grins back at Castiel. For a moment they both forget everything and simply smile.

"I'm in your head," says Dean, finally.

"But I'm not asleep and you're not an angel," Castiel contemplates, his voice quizzical.

"Yeah, Balthazar explained that, something to do with –"

"Balthazar?"

"Oh yeah, and Gabe… they're, um, back. It's all really weird. As usual, I guess."

"…Huh."

"So it's something about us and that freaky "profound bond" mojo you laid on me when you pulled me outta here, apparently it's still active or something so I could sorta find you… but I'm not here, I'm kinda in your mind… sorta," finishes Dean, aware that he's babbling through the whole explanation.

Castiel, however, nods thoughtfully, like he gets it (which is more than Dean does). "I assume you've found my body then?"

"That's where the angelic assistance comes in. You know, they're douches, but they're surprisingly helpful douches," Dean muses out loud. "They've got it covered. So, that coat?"

"Yes?"

"I'm serious, it suits you and I'd never wear it."

Castiel looks at his feet so Dean can't see his saddened face, but Dean gets the gist and puts an encouraging arm through his shoulder. "Hey, what's up man?"

"I'm dead."

"I know."

"Dean, I'm going to stay dead," states Castiel and his voice doesn't even shake when he says it.

"No, _hey, _no you're not," says Dean, hoarse and low.

"Dean, could you do me a favour?" asks Castiel quietly.

"Yeah, anything." Eager, hopeful.

"Could you cremate my body?"

Dean doesn't move for a second. "You know I'd punch you if I had a real body."

"There's no point, Dean, eternal torment awaits me anyway. A punch won't hurt nearly as much." His voice is passive, without feeling. Dean can't tell everything that's going on beneath that voice.

"Okay, you know what, screw it. You want this," he gestures into the air, making the ugliness around them all the more pronounced. "Fine, yeah, go do another deal with a devil, have fun being Hell's new friggin bitch."

Castiel doesn't answer.

"But can you just tell me _why?_" asks Dean.

"Because… Dean… it's difficult –"

"_really, _Cas, because seeing it from here it's pretty damn simple."

" – _**I'm not worthy of redemption Dean." **_The sentence reverberates between them.

Finally, Dean scoffs. "You don't believe that?"

"I do. And so should you Dean, if you would please just think. I am not exactly innocent."

"Oh please, when do I _ever _think?"

Castiel doesn't seem to notice Dean's desperate attempt at humour. "Just – just listen to me Dean. I ought to remind you of my flaws, last of all killing you. This soul is a fake, a stupid fluke. I almost ruined Sam's mind, not to mention your rather obvious excessive drinking, which you seem to return to upon every setback. And I have a chance to save someone from eternal damnation now. It's… my punishment to remain here. You don't really want to save me."

"Oh yeah, that's why I've been spending days looking for you."

"… The whole time…"

"Yeah, since you fell. Cas, I forgive you. _Sam, _forgives you (probably), I think even God forgives you, you self-sacrificial bastard." Dean's practically shouting, but he sounds small and insignificant, words not even causing an echo. Castiel looks like he's been slapped.

"I… truly still do not understand you Dean. You ought to hate me."

"Yeah, well, I don't. You really think I'd be dumping your ass here? What do you think I'm doing having smalltalk in Hell with you?"

"I assumed that you weren't real, a figment of my mind, my guilt. My guilt would have seen right to… "dump my ass here" (yes, the exaggerated air-quotes accompanied that sentence).

"…You're an idiot Cas." But he's smiling again.

Then the unmistakable sound of growling starts, seemingly coming from all around. It rises to an ominous howl and suddenly the scorching breeze picks up and becomes a chilling wind.

Hellhounds.

* * *

><p><strong>Part 2 (starring the other, slightly taller Winchester) is practically 100% almost finished. sort of-ish.<strong>


	16. Authors note

I've been absent for quite some time, meaning that several of my stories have grown dusty. Honestly, I have my reasons, and hopefully I'll be writing again soon. Peace and cookies to all who read this.


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